The On-Call Corpse
by This is The Phantom Lady
Summary: Sherlock needs a corpse and contacts a young woman who is almost too good at playing dead. The woman becomes rather resourceful for Sherlock who struggles with understanding human emotions; but can she keep her heart-rate slow; and what will happen if she doesn't? -And how does John cope with their strange relationship? (Rated M due to acts of violence) Major S3 Spoils. TRIGGERS!
1. The Yellow Cat

"Be at The Yellow Cat at 8 -SH".

The woman had been staring at her text from the mystery number for a while now. She had never liked it when that happened.

She took a deep breath and sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. She was obviously not going to The Yellow Cat tonight. No way.

But she did have to know who would text her; chances were it was some woman who had given a man a false number to avoid dealing with him in the future; how often had she not done the same? But what if that was not the case?

A quick Google search left her as dumbfounded as when the text had arrived. She found it on a blog.

"Sherlock Holmes" escaped her lips involuntarily.

…

She couldn't explain why; but 7:52 she was at The Yellow Cat and had ordered herself a pint of Guinness. Her foot was tapping on the floor and she had to physically put her hand on her thigh to stop it.

She would know that face anywhere; the curly hair and those cheekbones and lips. But what surprised her were his eyes; they looked straight into hers as soon as he had entered.

"Hello" he said as he took a deep breath; still looking right at her as he sat down without taking off his long dark coat but he did make sure to straighten it so it wouldn't crease too bad; even if it wouldn't show on the fabric.

"Hello" She responded as calmly as she could. Her insides were screaming at her to ask him why on earth she was here.

The silence that followed was actually painful; she knew exactly what he was doing as he sat there in front of her. He already knew everything about her.

"Stay" his words were brief as he left the table and went to the bar. He soon returned with a bowl of water with ice bopping around its cold surface. He put it in front of her and smacked his lips.

"Put your hand in" he gestured towards the bowl. He put his hands together almost like a chess player waiting for his opponent to make the exact move he had calculated a while ago.

She didn't blink as she put her hand in and immediately balled it into a tight fist. He smiled.

"Questions?" he blinked. She was counting her breaths trying to ignore the urge to remove her hand from the painful liquid.

"Too many" she looked back into his eyes.

"Good" he took hold of the wrist on her dry arm; checking her pulse. "Very good" he was trying to hide his excitement.

"Strange man walks into a pub and asks you to perform a painful experiment and you don't ask why". He let go of her wrist and put her hand back on the table. She took a large gulp of her beer.

"I don't mind" She remained cool.

"- The pain you mean" he managed to crack a smile on her lips.

"Why me?" She finally got the question out; perhaps it was the sharp stinging sensation in her hand. "Are you going to interrogate me?" she tapped on the side of the bowl making the water move ever so slightly; washing even colder water over her hand that was fighting to accommodate for the cold.

"No; I wouldn't need to torture you for that" he shook his head.

"Right, and you wouldn't do that here either." She corrected her hair. "You're testing me" her eyes widened ever so slightly.

"3 minutes" he let her know. She registered it but didn't move her hand; it was about to turn numb as soon as the tingling ended. "It's an interview" he wet his pale lips.

"Interview for what?" she winched as all the signals in her body was telling her to get her hand out of the ice and run.

"I need a corpse" his voice was barely a whisper. She wasn't sure if it was the nerves in her hand going numb as a natural response to being submerged in ice water or if her heart might have stopped.

There was no sound coming from her as her pink lips muttered 'What?' as if she hadn't heard him.

"4 minutes 30 seconds. How does your hand feel?". He quizzed her completely ignoring what he just told her before.

"Fine" She wasn't specifically lying; she had no idea if she even had a hand anymore or if she ever had.

He grabbed hold of her wrist again; this time he was much firmer as he felt for her pulse. He seemed to even be listening for it.

"Your pulse should be elevated" he informed her. "Not only are you experiencing piercing pain but your life is at stake. Why are you calm?" he grabbed her wrist even tighter staring straight through her eyes.

"I can control my pulse" she swallowed hard. "I can ignore pain" she felt a slow icy fire start within her.

"You can still feel it" he informed her. "6 minutes".

"Of course" she breathed in trying to quench the fire. She turned mild again. "Why don't you tell me why I ignore it?" she set him a challenge. He sat back and let go of her wrist.

He smiled as he looked her over; he was making sure she noticed what he was doing and where he was looking.

"You taught yourself to endure pain for extended periods of time; a chronic condition. I'd say back and stomach maybe even in a sort of symbiotic relation; your stomach starts and your back follows; and the other way around " he paused to wet his lips with his tongue "No there's more. You were introduced to the pleasure of pain as a young girl and found a whole world of your own in it. It's your escape." He deduced. "It was the one thing you had control over. You have control now; you think you have control because I am exposing you to pain". His eyes narrowed as he looked through her soul.

Her foot had started tapping again.

"And now I burst your bubble." He looked rather pleased. She took her completely paralyzed hand out of the water and squeezed her thigh as hard as she could.

"8 minutes 17 seconds. You are impressive" he had begun sounding like the maddest scientist sitting across from his experimental animal.

"I could have continued" she groaned. Mostly annoyed with herself. "So how are you going to do it? Stab my paralyzed hand? I wouldn't even know you did it". She didn't take her eyes away from his.

"I need a corpse, not a dead girl" he shook his head seemingly disappointed in her lack of intelligence.

He got on his feet and turned the collar up on his coat. "I know you're coming" he winked at her with seriousness on his face.

She did. She wasn't sure why but she did. She had to.


	2. Look Dead

At the arrival at 221B Baker Street he pushed her through the door and up the stairs. He soon found his chair in the sitting room and sat down. She stood in the middle of the space observing her surroundings.

"Lie down on the floor" he pointed towards her feet. She bit the inside of her cheek and did as told. Maybe he really was a psychopath? "Good, look dead".

She opened her mouth to speak but he quickly hushed her with a finger softly on his lips.

"The interview is still on; this is the practical part" he let her know.

She swallowed and held her breath as she lay there on the floor; she concentrated on her heartbeat and knew she was slowing it down. Just like the times she had been at the hospital and her eyes would be fixed on her readings.

He sat there and smiled; just smiled.

…

"Sherlock?" she nearly jumped as a man's voice rang through the room; she fought against it.

"Stay" he coaxed her.

"Sherlock?" a man with light hair, a round face and a less tall posture than Sherlock entered the room. "Jesus!" he pointed to the woman "How did you smuggle her out?" he seemed both intrigued and appalled.

"Mira?" Sherlock gestured towards her. He bowed down to lend her a hand to get up. "John meet Mira, Mira meet John Watson". He said as she was back on her feet.

She extended her hand to the man he called John. John smiled.

"Thank God" John took a deep sigh of relief. "That's what you meant when you said you were going out to find a corpse?" he walked up to Sherlock.

"The next best thing" Sherlock retreated to his chair. The woman stood where she was. John sat down in the chair facing Sherlock's looking straight at her.

"You have the part, yes" Sherlock picked up a cup of cold tea that had been there since this morning probably and gestured towards her. She was utterly and completely confused. Sherlock gagged on the tea and spit it back in the delicate china teacup.

"Thank you" she said hesitantly.

"Where did you two meet then?" John looked at her.

"The Yellow Cat" she spoke briefly feeling out of breath.

"Sit down" Sherlock left his chair and for gestured her to take it. "Breathe" he instructed her. "You're about to have a panic attack".

Her breathing was erratic and her chest was cramping soon after. She held a hand over her chest.

"Brilliant, that way you know you're actually getting air in" Sherlock commented.

"What have you done to her? Sherlock?" John raised his voice; his eyes darting from the woman to his friend.

"I might have given her a fright" Sherlock said as if it was nothing. And maybe it was to him.

"I'm fine" she laughed as much as she could when heaving for breath.

"Are you sure?" John looked concerned at her. The attack was already subsiding.

"Of course she is; she can fool a doctor to think she's dead!" Sherlock smiled smugly.

"Go get her some water" John was getting cross.

"But."

"No buts Sherlock. Glass of water. Now!" John pointed towards the kitchen.

"Really, It's fine" she half smiled.

"Your hand is red" he took hold of it "and burning hot" he continued

"Well we had some fun, a drinking game". Why was she lying to a man she didn't even know? And in favour of a man she had no incentive to trust other than his name.

"Drinking game, yes!" Sherlock entered again with a glass of water. John took it out of his hand and gave it to her. "She won. Had her hand in ice water for 8 minutes and 17 seconds". He seemed so amused.

She looked cautiously at the glass before taking a little sip of it; just enough to make her mouth moist. You never knew with a man like that. You never knew.

"You do know that experiment is only supposed to last 3 minutes?" John looked crossly at the tall man with the curls. "7 minutes is the absolute maximum" he further informed.

"I had to test her". He seemed uncomfortable about standing around. "Can I have my chair back now?" he was fiddling with his hands behind his back.

"You could have caused her frost bite" John was not amused.

"I didn't hold her hand" Sherlock rolled his eyes "Chair now!".

She got up and gave him the chair. John rose quickly and helped her into his chair instead.

"I'm sorry… he gets like this" John rubbed his chin.

"Don't worry, I'm a big girl" she felt her control of the situation slowly return. She rubbed her burning hand with the other one. "It's funny; the ice numbs after a while… the burning just continues to burn until it dies out… the blood feels so warm inside the cold blood vessels" she traced the blue veins on the top of her hand.

Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear.

"I like her" he told John and she lost an inch of control as her lips formed a smile and a bit of the blood ran to her cheeks.

"So what exactly are your plans with her?" John needed to know.

"She is going to be my personal corpse" he stated matter-of-factly.

"In less frightening words?" John helped him; scared for her sake.

"When I call her she has to come here and play dead… The morgue is apparently not a library" he snickered. "I even asked for a card".

"Don't you usually use your mind palace for that?" John was unconvinced at the explanation of his grinning friend.

"Well if I have her here I can put it to better use".

"I suppose that makes sense" John nodded.

"So why don't you go home and get some sleep? I will text you when I need you" Sherlock reached into his back pocket.

As he led her out he gave her an envelope.

"Bye" he said as he pushed her out onto Baker Street.


	3. Dressing The Part

Several days passed by with her staring at her phone; her mind racing, retracing that strange evening she spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

She still had no clue how he had found her and how he knew about her ability to control her vital signs. She was trying to remember who she might have told it to.

She knew for sure she had not been in contact with Sherlock Holmes before; she had thought about it but had always dismissed the thought and decided she was happier without knowing the answers to her questions. Also he was notorious for not taking boring cases and what would make her interesting? Nothing.

When she finally received texts it was adverts from the local supermarket and she felt an increase of annoyance towards them. She had willingly signed up because she did love a good deal; now she just wanted the world to stop using her number. Everyone who was not Sherlock Holmes.

It had been a week and a half and she had decided to forget it; perhaps she had been having a hallucination. She had however saved newspaper clippings with his latest case this last week and a half. What a sad case this was.

Above the mumbling from the TV-set she heard the startling ring of her text alert. Another advert she thought. I hope they lowered the price on eggs; she thought.

"Baker St. Now -SH" it said and she felt faint.

…

In fact she felt more than faint; she was panicking; slowly drowning inside her own stream of thoughts.

What in the world was she going to wear? How do you dress to look like a corpse? What if she tried too hard; he would know. He would judge her for it.

But what if she didn't try hard enough? Could she ever win?

She opened her closet and quickly closed it again. Ran to the bathroom to brush her teeth and touch up her makeup. Back to the closet again she pulled out a skirt, a pair of tights and a shirt. One of her secretary outfits. Her safe option when she didn't know what to expect.

She got dressed and nearly poked her long fingernails through the delicate fabric of the nude tights twice. She went back to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She had forgotten about already doing it.

Getting into her heels and on with the coat and purse in hand she was out the door popping a piece of gum in her mouth as she locked it.

…

When she arrived at the door of 221B Baker Street she swallowed the gum and ended her mental pep-talk. She knocked 3 times and the door was soon opened.

It was John Watson standing there looking almost apologetic. She gave him a smile and a soft:

"Hello".

"Hi, uhm Sherlock wants you to play dead upstairs… he wants to be all mysterious about it" John pointed at the stairs leading to their sitting room. He chuckled slightly as he took a long time to pronounce the word 'mysterious'.

"Well I'll do my best!" she winked her eye and walked up the stairs. John followed her.

"I'll take your coat" he said as she was peeling it off of her shoulders. She watched him carefully as he hung it over the back chair.

She sat down on the floor; closed her eyes and took a deep breath filling her lungs with air before she lay down; one more breath and she spread her right arm out and her cheek on the floor. She heard John make a knock on something and a door creaked. Footsteps; Sherlock's footsteps.

"John!" he was aggravated "Why do you never do what I tell you?"

"Sherlock, you can't do that!" John protested.

"Of course I can" Sherlock was clearly spitting by now. "This doesn't work!".

"I don't think she would agree to it…" John was lowering his voice.

"Mira get up please" Sherlock told her calmly but still very annoyed with John's unwillingness to assist him.

She opened her eyes and gave him a small smile and slowly she got back on her feet and took in the sight of him without that long dark coat that with his hat had become a rather iconic feature for him. He was in a tight fitting black shirt and black pants trousers. Not a bad look.

"Would you mind taking your clothes off?" he said. As simple as that.

"Of course." Her hand was already at the top-button of her shirt.

"Next time do as I tell you, please" Sherlock turned to John. "Thank you" he nodded towards her as she continued until she was only in her undergarments "I'll let you keep those on".

She nodded trying to supress her gratitude at the inches of clothing she was left with and lay down again just as before with her eyes closed. She had to fight even harder to keep her heart-rate slow this time. Even with clothes on she was exposed completely to him; she could hide nothing. In this state she couldn't even ease her own mind by telling herself some silly little lie about certain things being hidden under fabrics.

"There were no signs of a struggle anywhere on the body" Sherlock spoke. "The Tox screens were all negative. How did she die?".

"And why was she naked?" John wondered.

"She obviously knew the murderer" She could practically hear him roll his eyes. "Let me just…" Sherlock crouched down and corrected her position. She couldn't fight the little flutters she had as his hands grazed her exposed skin. She was fighting it hard though.

"She was facing the bed. He was sitting on it. She had been crying, but silently. More than a woman scorned." He spoke so fast.

"Lovers?" John questioned

"She thought so" Holmes smacked his lips. She took a small breath as silently as she could and not enough to make her chest rise too much. "All of them did".

He took hold of her wrist and she nearly panicked. She could lower her pulse all right but not stop it completely.

"You don't think he forced her to take her clothes off?" John coughed.

"No, if he had forced her to take the clothes off; it would be left in a much more confined area; this was playful!" The smile on his lips was audible. "It was all fun and games until…" he paused.

"Until?" John coaxed him on.

"Ah!" he exclaimed "He broke her heart!" he sounded way too excited.

"Well…" John was trying to find the joke in Sherlock's words.

"He literally and philosophically speaking broke her heart!"

"Broken Heart Syndrome?" John didn't sound convinced.

"All of these girls were fragile. He knew what he did; broke their hearts and it killed them!" Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Mira" he spoke directly to her now. "You have had your heart broken before. It hurts doesn't it? It hurts inside your chest!"

She opened her eyes carefully and looked at him. She took a deep breath before she spoke.

"Yes, yes it does" she was blinking.

"And you know how to stop a panic attack… Good, back to being dead; thank you" he winked at her.

Her eyes were closed again and he started walking around her in circles; his shoes sounded incredibly loud but she focused on being 'dead'.

"You do know Broken Heart Syndrome is rare? Sherlock this is 4 girls in 4 weeks" John had to remind him.

"Yes, like I said they were fragile; very fragile and young" He was breathing through his nose. "He was their miracle; they thought their lives had no cause and there he comes saving them from darkness… and when they are most vulnerable with him he ruins their lives and it kills them". His circle stopped where he was crouched down before when he corrected her.

"Well technically that is a possibility" John seemed hesitant.

"But?" Sherlock was challenging the doctor.

"You don't just drop dead… it takes a little longer than that." John explained

"She didn't just drop dead. She was lying there for a while crying while her heart stopped" Sherlock let him know. "Thank you Mira you have been very helpful. Do get dressed" Sherlock retreated to his chair.

She opened her eyes and swallowed as she let air back into her lungs. She got up carefully and got dressed. She went for her coat when she was stopped.

"Wait; I said you could get dressed not leave!" Sherlock's voice had an eerie ring to it.


	4. Tears

"Do tell me you can cry on cue" The detective looked into her eyes; his were narrow and cold. "All your dreams of becoming a famous actress once… must be worth something".

She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and took deep short breaths and her bottom lip began to quiver. Soon after a tear rolled down her cheek. She could.

"Excellent!" Sherlock applauded her. "What would make you cry like that, curled up in a ball on the floor?" he looked deep into her wet eyes.

"M-me or her?" She could hardly control her real emotions as the tears kept rolling.

"You, Mira!" He turned stern. "You're naked with your boyfriend. How do you end up on the floor?" he pressured her.

"I would be nervous; my first time with him… and he would tell me something bad; possibly that he never cared for me, and is this really all I have to offer him?" she was drying her eyes with the back of her hand and was no longer sure herself if she was acting by now. "Or maybe that he could get it anywhere… maybe he was already" She continued as she looked into his eyes.

"Your eyes are turning dark and you have a tremor in your right hand you are trying to suppress" Sherlock deduced "I told you to act, not break down" he lifted his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. "So, that would break the heart of a woman with confidence issues".

John stepped forward and offered her a tissue. She took it and was careful not to smudge her makeup. John kept his eyes on her with a hint of shame in his eyes.

"I'm sorry" she laughed through her tears. "Got a bit carried away there" she forced the smile onto her lips as she knew that would eventually kill the waterworks.

"It's fine; don't make a repeat of it". He ruffled his hair and his face froze completely.

"Sherlock?" John asked trying to snap him out of it.

"He was more than their saviour; it was their therapist! He knew how to apply the correct pressure to snap their brittle minds". Sherlock seemed to mostly speak to himself as he broke his silence. "It was murder by words!" he shot up and balled his hands in fists and punched the air. Clearly proud of himself. "They all fell for him; women like that often mistake being listened to for love. And he took advantage of it! They needed to be figured out and that's how he did it". He seemed to somewhat cringe at the word 'love'.

"I'll phone Lestrade" John already had his phone out.

"Better get home now" Sherlock looked at the woman who was still drying the last tear off of her pale face. He put a brown envelope in her hand as he showed her out.

…

She walked home; it was a fair bit of distance but she needed some air in her deprived lungs.

_"You have had your heart broken before" _

She coughed in an attempt to get his words out of her head.

_"… All your dreams of becoming a famous actress…"_

She cleared her throat again and looked through her purse to find her headphones to fill her head with something else.

_"Confidence issues"_

Even with the music blaring in her left ear she couldn't keep his words out. Fine. If It was going to be like this every time she would simply ignore his texts the next time.

Would there be a next time? Not likely. She felt she had messed up; he would have solved that case a lot quicker without her being a bother. What happened to her crying like that? Stupid!

…

Three days passed and she had worked on putting her meetings with the world's only consulting detective and Dr. John Watson at the back of her mind; ready to be filed alongside other things she would rather forget and hopefully someday would.

Her phone beeped when she was taking a shower. She heard it but took her time anyway.

She spent ages drying her hair. She wringed it and combed it over and over again trying to get the moisture out of the thick strands. A rather arduous task.

When she finally got to phone another text arrived in her inbox.

She swiped her finger over it and found the messages.

"Baker St. Urgent. Do wear a dress. No need to brush twice -SH" She raised an eyebrow at the part of brushing twice. Then she remembered how silly she had been the last time.

"Taking your time -SH" was his impatient second message and before she even left her inbox another one ticked in.

"I'm coming over -SH" her eyes widened as she looked around. Panic striking her. She had not had people in her flat in forever.


	5. Ouch!

She quickly jumped into the first dress hanging in her closet; a green floral print summer dress.

Just as she had moved the mug from her morning tea from the coffee table she called a dining table and into the kitchen; there was a persistent knocking on the door. She opened slowly to find Sherlock giving her a clearly forced smile.

"Bloody long shower" he shook his head in disapproval noticing her still damp hair. He walked straight into her sitting room that due to her flat's tiny size was also her bedroom. He immediately sat down in the chair by the window. He seemed to think he owned the place.

"Well, I didn't know it was you" she almost lied. She had a feeling when she heard the beeps but she had deliberately ignored it.

"We need to change that". She only now noticed he was sitting with her phone in his hand.

"Hey!" she laughed nervously.

"Ooh, got anything saucy on here?" he chuckled at her. "I was only going to change my text alert so you won't be making this mistake again" he spoke as his fingers moved fast over the touch screen.

"Well the raciest thing on there is an image I put on Instagram of a bag of nuts" they both chuckled at that.

"You're quite right. Here" He threw it to her and she caught it hardly having time to think before she acted.

"So" She swallowed hard and put the phone in the pocket in the side of the dress; the very reason she invested in it. "You need a corpse again then? Shall I lie down here?" she pointed at the little floor space that was in her cramped home.

"No. I'm buying you dinner. Might want to fix your makeup" his fingers were testing the fibres of the pink blanket that lay over the right armrest of the chair he had invited himself to sit in.

"Sure" She shivered slightly as she took the few steps it took into the bathroom. She fixed her makeup as quick as she could. "Was the victim killed in a restaurant then?" she called out to him.

"No" He called back. "John is making me… he seemed to think I was a bit harsh on you" he let her know.

"Well thanks" she spoke as she applied the lipstick and re-emerged. She grabbed her black faux fur coat and stepped into a pair of black heels.

"John is clueless" he rolled his eyes as they left her home and walked into the little café down the street she usually went to get her take-out.

…

She ordered a ham and cheese sandwich. Sherlock just shook his head at the waiter.

"Are you not going to get something?" she wondered.

"No" was his short reply. He was looking out of the window and he almost seemed anxious.

By the time her sandwich arrived she was barely touching it.

"Well, you could at least eat it" his nose crinkled in disapproval.

"I'm not hungry" she admitted looking at her plate; mostly to avoid his judgemental gaze.

"Yes you are; you haven't had dinner and for breakfast you had a bar of chocolate with your tea; you have an eating disorder and you're not comfortable eating in public" he pointed out.

"I don't like to eat in public, _alone_" she corrected his deduction, trying to ignore the fact that he knew of her embarrassing breakfast choice. She knew what he made out her defensiveness on the subject so she didn't bother to mention anything further about her eating habits.

"Eat it" He ordered her in a cold, stern voice without raising it too much in an attempt to avoid attention drawn to them.

She complied and bit into her sandwich. The food grew inside her mouth but she swallowed it; she forced herself.

"When you're done with that do you mind coming with me?" he was watching her jaw and the muscles in her throat working hard on getting rid of the food bite by bite, closely.

She swallowed the last of it and nodded. She took a big gulp of her water and she was ready.

"I'll get that" he made eye contact with the waiter and off they were.

…

"If you don't mind, would you lay down on your back?" he told her. She had barely hung her coat over a wooden chair in his sitting room. A room she was almost growing accustom to by now.

"Of course" she swallowed with a smile. She could still feel that sandwich in her throat.

"I'll get my riding crop" He was grinning from ear to ear. Almost like a school boy who had his chance to loot the cookie jar.

"- Your what?" She sat up immediately; shocked. She was mostly shocked that there was something about this man that could surprise her.

"I need to use it on you; I have to compare it to some old data I have on a cadaver" he flapped his hands about like it was the clearest logic.

"A riding crop?" she was completely dumbfounded "On a cadaver?"

"Hold tight and lie back down" he said and ran into his bedroom. When he returned he was testing the strength and buoyancy of the crop in his hands.

She quickly slowed her breathing down and tried to find a peace of mind. She could block it out; she could endure it. That was what she tried to convince herself of.

"Don't worry; just a few short blows to your…" his eyes darted over her body as she lay there; her fingernails digging into the old dusty carpet. "lower leg; the scars on your arms might interfere with the bruising. You will have endured worse" he licked his lips.

"And you would know?" she joked. Purposely buying herself a few seconds more.

"I was drugged, but yes" he nodded. He struck the air as hard as he could. Preparing. The riding crop sang as it cut through the air.

"Is it intact?" she asked looking up at him with wide eyes. She couldn't look at the 'weapon' in his hands if her mind trick was to work.

"Of course it is!" he retorted.

"Well then go ahead" She wasn't sure if she was attempting to sound sexy or what. But at least this meant that it was her decision. She was in control. Somewhat in control at least.

He raised his arm and took a deep breath in to get more strength behind it. She closed her mouth so she couldn't bite into her tongue. Her eyes were open but facing away from him. She relaxed her muscles with each breath anticipating the first blow.

"Stop!" John's voice rang through. She was staring at his shoes as he entered the room.

The first painful whip hit her leg and she made a funny little noise inside her throat. A small whimper that never made it the whole way through. He was putting incredible strength into it.

"Sherlock!" John screamed. She knew the second hit came but she couldn't feel it. There might even have been a third and a fourth.

"Thanks; now sit there and I will take notes on the discolouration" he pointed to John's armchair: smiled and put the riding crop back where it came from.

She hoppled into the chair and took heavy breaths making her chest heave. She looked up at the ceiling trying to dry her eyes that despite her best efforts had become damp.

"I swear I'll kill him" John was fuming.

Sherlock came back waltzing about contend with himself. He sat down in his chair with a black leather-bound notebook and a pen.

She got her phone from her pocket and found a game to play. She needed to be somewhere else mentally for several minutes.

"It's a scientific study, John" Sherlock explained a while after when he realized his friend was still standing there gawking at him. "Mira put foot up on the table" he let her know and moved the coffee table closer to her. She continued playing the game but put her foot on the table as told. The leg was throbbing heavily but it felt strangely numb at the same time.

"If this was anyone else I would have thought you two were in a sadomasochistic relationship" John spoke "But Sherlock; you're abusing her" John's voice gradually got louder.

"I'm fine" she spoke; still distant and preoccupied dealing with the urge to cry out.

"Told you, now can I please be allowed to do this? Would hate to waste a good bruise" he pointed with his pen at her leg. The skin was a light red colour.

As soon as the pain had dulled down she put the phone back in her pocket.

She sat there watching him observe her; intrigued. John stayed where he stood observing Sherlock clearly not comfortable about their relationship in these moments.

…

"Would you like some tea boys?" a high-pitched and cheery woman's voice cut through the silence that had engulfed them.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson that would be lovely" Sherlock's gaze never left Mira's bruise.

"Oh I didn't realize you had company; I'll get another cup." Mira smiled at the kind lady.

"Thank you" she beamed.

Mrs. Hudson soon returned with a 3rd cup.

"It'll be alright dear" she comforted Mira.

"Not a client" Sherlock's greenish eyes were still not swaying from her leg. "An experiment…" he rubbed his chin.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and left them to it.

Mira was about to nod off when Sherlock pushed a finger into the centre of the bruise alerting her to the fact that she was still in pain.

"Warm" She wasn't sure but it almost sounded like a satisfied moan coming from him.

"Do you even realize it's a human being?" John chipped in.

"Of course I do" he pushed the finger harder against her skin. "a fair bit of swelling".

"A _living_ human being?" John gestured towards her. She was smiling but her muscles were tensing ever so slightly. Enough for Sherlock to know it was forced.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed

"Well look at that; two boys fighting over little me" she chuckled "Who would have thought that" she teased. John smiled.

"She uses humour to deflect the pain; this hurts like hell" Sherlock removed his hands from her throbbing skin.

"Spoilsport" Mira poked her tongue out at him.

Soon as Sherlock had conducted his research on the discolouration in the first few hours he sent her home with yet another brown envelope and an instruction to text him a picture of it every hour.


	6. He is Not Safe To Be Around

She got in a cab and went home. She wasn't going to put too much strain on her leg by walking all the way home again and she had also neglected to put her tights on before Sherlock showed up in her home; although the cold London air was a treat to the boiling sensation she would rather sit in a warm cab.

To the outside world they wouldn't be able to see what had just happened to her. She walked normally and saved the hoppling for when she closed her door and was home at last.

When the cab arrived at her home she realized her mistake. She never took her purse with her in the midst of all of the confusion. A text arrived and as she did not recognize the alert she figured it would be Sherlock.

"Your purse is at home. Money in envelope. -SH". She didn't have to force that smile.

She opened the envelope and paid the cabby. How could he know she had not opened the envelopes before? She was not at all surprised he noticed her not taking her purse with her and that he knew she had arrived.

All the envelopes were kept in the top drawer in her bedroom/sitting room. She hadn't looked much at them just put them there for safekeeping. They felt a little contaminated to her.

…

She kept her end of the deal taking a picture of her leg every hour precisely until 2am when she fell asleep. The loud sound of the text alert woke her up.

"Need picture -SH"

"Need sleep" she replied but in her drowsy state she still managed to photograph her injury.

"Will wake you in 1h -SH" he replied back. She groaned and lay back down.

And so it went on and on. He only stopped after 36 hours and by then she wasn't sure she was sane anymore. At least she was too tired to think of how tender her skin was.

She turned her attention to the news as she sat up in her bed. Not much interesting was happening in the world. Murder, robbery and some celebrity couple got married. Oh and that therapist Sherlock had babbled about was arrested. And she surely couldn't sleep.

Shrugging her shoulder she went to the kitchen to boil herself some water and found cup noodles in her pantry-drawer. She bit the inside of her cheek as she found a note on yellow paper.

"Eat -SH" it said and he had even gone to the length of drawing a smiley face next to it.

"I am eating." She texted him annoyed as the kettle boiled.

"Got my note? -SH"

"Yes, got it"

"Eat more. SH"

"You too!" even if he wasn't physically there she put her foot down.

"I don't eat when I'm working. Digestion slows the mind -SH"

"Never mind" she rolled her eyes and put the phone down.

What did he have to care about her eating habits for? She was doing fine. Just fine! And no damned Hat Detective was going to put her down on this subject. And look! The cup noodles went down a treat as she sat back down in front of the telly flicking through channels to find anything remotely interesting.

She ended up switching between kids TV and a documentary on aliens. That was as interesting as her life got on days like this.

The familiar ring of her phone went off. She grabbed it quickly. Just the supermarket. Finally that sale on eggs she had wanted earlier.

She got dressed and went to the store to pick up the groceries. When she got home her wallet was near empty and she went to the top drawer to grab the brown envelopes Sherlock had given her.

Her eyes scanned the amount of notes that she lay out on the table. She was set for rent for a long while with this kind of money. One of her front teeth dug into her bottom lip as her fingers grazed over the bruise on her right leg. The pain was so dull.

She put her head in her hands and muttered to herself.

"What on earth are you doing?" She could surely use the money but this did not feel right.

"One more -SH" Sherlock's text interrupted her talking to herself.

"One more?" she wasn't sure what he meant.

"Picture. Quick. -SH". He replied promptly to her confused text.

She quickly snapped a picture and pressed send. This was why she did it. Because she couldn't say no.

…

A little while later her phone rang. It was Sherlock's number.

"Mira?" John's voice asked

"Hi John" she chirped.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine dr. Watson. Thank you" she gathered the notes in a pile on the table with her free hand. "And yourself?"

"I'm good. Listen I think you should stay away from Sherlock" he sounded hushed.

"Oh John" she giggled "Jealous?"

"No!" he defended himself "For your own sake… He's not safe to be around for you"

"Safe?" she laughed it off "that's the point, I think"

"I can't be around him all the time; he loses grip sometimes" John took a deep breath. "That thing with the riding crop was out of line" he sounded absolutely pissed but tried to regain his calm.

"John don't you think it's better he does that to me instead of someone else? I know what I'm dealing with at least"

"Do you?" John wondered

"If it makes you uncomfortable seeing us together I will be more discrete about it" she mocked him. She had the goofiest grin on her face.

"Suit yourself then." John hung up the phone and she dropped hers on the bed. She put the money back in the envelopes they came from and returned them to the drawer till she needed them more.

She continued with her dull life a little while longer before a text came; the alert was the one she had identified as Sherlock's.

"Excuse John -SH"

"It's fine, bruise still looking good" she responded

"Good -SH" and silence ensued for days.


	7. Flirt With Strangers

On Friday night he texted her again. She sprinted to get her phone.

"Yellow Cat at 8. Flirt with strangers. Make sure you are noticed. Will be there 9. -SH" she glared at it. Wait, what?

"Dress sexy -SH". Sexy… sexy? What in the world?

…

"Flirt with man in grey shirt. If convenient touch. -SH" he texted her just as she entered the pub.

She shook her head and sat at the bar ordering herself an Irish Rose and took a careful sip. She scanned the room and put her left leg over the right one. She gave the man in the grey shirt a sweet smile before licking her lips. He seemed to blush at her interest in him.

The man ordered her another drink from the bar before she was barely through the first. He sat next to her and looked into her eyes.

"Come here often?" she said before he could open his mouth. He shook his head.

"No, you?"

"Well… oh let me get that" she looked at his shoulder and wiped actually nothing off.

"Give him the card in your wallet. -SH" Sherlock texted her; she read it without the man noticing. She swallowed hard. She understood now.

"Listen" she whispered softly. While dusting his shirt off for the imaginary piece of nothing she had leaned closer to him. She carefully reached in her wallet and handed him the card Sherlock must have planted on her. The man gawked at her for a minute then retreated to where he came from.

"Business man to your left. Same procedure -SH" the next text said and she shivered.

By 9pm when Sherlock finally arrived she had given her card to 4 men in there. He didn't have to instruct her this time. She gave him the exact same treatment.

He held the card in his hand and caressed it with his thumb and put it in his back pocket. He leaned in and completely paralyzed her with a firm kiss on the lips.

As he broke the kiss he quickly whispered:

"Are they looking?" she instinctively licked her lips. She was gobsmacked. Several seconds later she came back to life and she nodded in reply.

"Haven't got all day, babe" he said loudly and gave her a loud smack on the backside as he escorted her out of there. She quickly glanced over her shoulder to see the men watching them closely.

"The press" he explained as he hauled the cab and took her to Baker Street.

"I see" she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"I brushed my teeth!" he commented on her action, there was something so innocent about his childish outburst.

"So did I, twice" she mocked him and asked him: "So I'm a prostitute now, then?" as they walked up to the front door.

"Now?" his steely green eyes bore into hers.

…

"Hi Mira" John greeted her.

"John please don't talk to my btch thank you" Sherlock pretended to sound unaffected by his use of profanity but ended up cracking up. Mira joined in giggling dumbly; a side effect of the Irish Roses she had been sipping.

Silence fell around them as they sat down. The men in their respective chairs and Mira on the couch.

"Sorry but it has to seem like we're actually doing something… care to stay till the morning?" He knew she wouldn't say no but he asked anyway. Mostly to soothe John.

"Sure… Sherlock?" she locked eyes with him "Can you tell me now how you found me? And maybe even why?" Sherlock wiped his lips with the back of his hand like she had done in the cab.

"I knew for a while I was in need of a female who could pretend to be deceased; I looked up hospital records of young women who had been taking in with symptoms that posed as a heart condition but was never diagnosed. Then I looked through security footage of those patients and gathered a handful that had their eyes fixed on their vital signs and I talked to a few nurses. You were the most likely candidate and seeing as you had some acting experience or at least think you do it was really a no brainer" he yawned. He had spoken with such speed she was still trying to catch up to his words.

"Right" she gasped. "Makes sense".

"It's simple really" Sherlock said and picked up his violin. "Don't cry now" he said as his fingers carefully played a serene melody. She couldn't stop the single teardrop from running. Beautiful tunes always had that effect on her.

"He's good" she looked at John who had grabbed his laptop and was typing away.

"Yeah" he spoke softly but his fingers didn't stop typing.

Feeling the odd one out with free hands she reached for a book on the coffee table and started reading.

"What are you putting up on your blog now? How jealous you are at this lady in my bedroom?" Sherlock stopped playing his violin and John stared stiffly at him.

"No, no!" he shook his head "But you want me to, don't you?" he pondered.

"Would be very helpful" Sherlock's fingers was gently feeling the strings on the instrument.

"Why would you want the media to think you're with a prostitute?" John gestured towards Mira who put the book down. This she had to see.

"Because!" Sherlock's reply was short and quite frankly not satisfying John. "Write this: "Sherlock Holmes came home tonight with a strange girl. Pretty sure it is not a client but have a feeling a case might come soon"". John typed as Sherlock spoke; clearly trying to mock John's speaking voice and style of writing. "They will put it all together themselves" his hand was now resting on the strings.


	8. A Favour

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be" Sherlock looked directly into John's eyes. It was more telling than asking.

"Nope"

"I think you do. I promise not to whip her too hard this time; her bruise is healing nicely by the way, not too tender now I reckon since she barely flinched when it hit the bar stool earlier" he mocked and rolled his eyes. John sighed.

"It's not a joke you know" John looked back at his laptop and typed some more. This time a little slower.

"But I think it is" Sherlock was getting defensive. "Anyway. I was only doing her a favour"

"A favour?" John was so furious he laughed "How is pain ever a favour?"

"When it takes the mind off of another" Sherlock quickly glanced at her before looking back at John. She felt something catch in her throat but fought the urge to cough. "Mira how is your shoulder" he turned his eyes to her again.

"Fine" she shrugged said shoulder.

"Lies" he shook his head. John was looking at her now too.

"Okay, it's not fine" What else could she say? She felt watched like never before.

"Knots? I can take care of that if you want" John offered putting the laptop away.

"Yes, and no" she looked out of the window. "I was born with a small horizontal twist in my spine; apparently it pulls my muscles in a way they are not supposed to and I get these knots under my shoulder blades that no one can get to" she spoke. As each word left her lips the pain she was feeling got stronger as she was no longer ignoring it.

"What have you tried?" John was examining her closely with his eyes. Sherlock just sat there. Observing.

"Massage therapist, exercises, acupuncture, chiropractor" She started to list

"And a riding crop" Sherlock added to her list in a monotone voice.

"And that" she raised a well plucked eyebrow at him.

"It worked for a while didn't it?" he asked and she nodded in reply. "But you already knew that. You forgot to add a few things to the list".

"Well a girl shouldn't always bare all" she took a crack at sounding mysterious. Sherlock chuckled at her.

"Can I have a go, though?" John broke in.

"I don't see the harm" She smiled softly as John walked over to her and she turned her back to him.

"Try to relax your muscles the best you can" His tone of voice changed into that of a practitioner

"I'll try, can't promise much" She took deep breaths. This was going to burn and she knew it all too well.

John felt around her offending shoulder gently applying pressure. He didn't need to ask which one as the knot was fairly visible. She bit into her lip and closed her eyes. Her hands balled into tight fists as his fingers dug in deeper massaging her ever tensed muscles. A tear rolled down her cheek as she forced her eyes to stay shut.

"Now who's hurting her". Sherlock's voice felt like it was miles away. This kind of pain numbed all other senses.

"I'm helping her" John said and dug his hand even deeper into her back but after ten minutes he stopped torturing her. He stood in front of her and heaved a sigh of annoyance.

"You're right I couldn't get to those under the shoulder blades, I think I cleared a few others though. Are you on any form of pain relief?"

"No" she and Sherlock replied at the same time. She shot him an irritated look.

"It would do you good though. I can give you some if you want?" John offered. She opened her mouth to speak but this time Sherlock was faster.

"Mira doesn't take pain medication out of principle. She used to be addicted to them as a teenager so she would rather live in a world of pain than pop a few" he said tiredly.

"I was taking up to 9 pills every day; in one dose. It should have killed me or at least damaged my liver" she looked at her shoes; examining the black fabric ever so closely. "I finally went cold turkey and had the most horrific headaches for 6 months but I won. You should know" she gritted her teeth as her eyes were still occupied with her own footwear.

"And so you got addicted to pain" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

"Change of subject please?" She looked up from her heels.

"I think you should take these though and get some sleep" John grabbed a bottle of tablets from a drawer and handed her two. She held them in her open hand. She looked to Sherlock as if to ask him if it was all right with him.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight, I have things to do" he pointed towards his bedroom door with the bow. She put the tablets in her mouth and swallowed them without water. She got up and walked straight into his bedroom. She sat down carefully on his bed and looked around noting the periodic table poster and the framed Asian lettering as she kicked off her shoes. She had barely gotten herself under the covers; still dressed; before she fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock's violin.

…

She woke up to a loud banging on the door and shot straight up. She looked around confused; having completely forgotten where she was. And why she was there.

"Mira!" Sherlock shouted and it clicked.

"Coming" she was searching for her shoes. She could not have kicked them that far last night. She gave up her search quickly and opened the door; pulling her dress down over her knees.

"Thanks for lending me your bed" she smiled as soon as she opened the door and faced him.

"Here" he handed her left shoe to her and she cocked her eyebrow at him.

"Tried it on did you?" she yawned. He smiled at that.

"No, tempting though but not my size". He said and followed her into his little lab in the kitchen where he had her other shoe.

"What are you testing my shoes for?" she tried to hide the fact that she was greatly unnerved by this.

"You can tell a lot about a woman from her favourite set of heels" he licked his lips and shook a vial of some sort of clear liquid.

"I bet, I'm boring though" she ran her fingers over the smooth black suede fabric of her left shoe.

"Maybe" he spoke as he watched his experiments closely.

"So you've traced all of my walks to the stores then?" she took a step forward

"Those too"

"You have me all figured out now" she put her hand on the table. "You've looked at me, been in my flat, and had a good look at my shoes. You heard me talk" He looked at her hand on the table.

"Mira, of course I have; that's what I do" he let her know.

"And yet you keep me around. Sherlock I'm terribly boring".

"I need you" he looked into her eyes and she took a step back. This she did not expect somehow. "Here" he gave her the other shoe. "Take my coat; there will be a few reporters outside some might follow you home" he instructed her as he kept where he was. She got into her shoes.

"What about my own?" her eyes darted towards it on the back of the chair where she left it the night before.

"You forgot it was here… or perhaps it was damaged" he was looking at the liquid that was slowly changing hue.

"I love that coat; it's old yes but I love it" she sighed as she went to it and got her belongings out of the pockets. She grabbed his coat and checked the pockets. She found nothing other than a brown envelope and realized it was for her.

She was out of the door without a goodbye. She figured it wasn't needed.


	9. No Comments!

As she stepped outside she thought for a second that there was no one waiting for her. A few flashes proved her wrong and she tried to look as flustered as she could. She walked fast and tried desperately to haul a cab to take her home.

When she came home she was sure they were still there. They knew where she lived now. Sherlock Holmes' prostitute.

She carefully slipped out of his long dark coat and hung it on the green coat stand. She sat in her chair and turned on the TV. Anything other than silence suited her just right.

She didn't get to sit there for long before she felt up unable to sit down a second longer and she put the envelope with the others. She went to the bathroom to remove her makeup that was smudged on her face during the night. What a sight she had been to the cameras. Her mother would be oh so proud!

A few hours passed with her in front of the telly before her phone started ringing. Blocked numbers every time and she didn't pick up. She had learned that lesson.

She did however listen to the voicemails she was left with. Curiosity did kill the cat in her case. Most of them introduced themselves as journalists and some even mentioned a fee for any information she could be willing to give on Sherlock Holmes. She wanted to turn her phone off but she knew she had to keep it open in case he wanted to get in touch with her.

"You could have put a fake nr on the card" She texted Sherlock just as she was about to lose her mind completely.

"Do talk to a few -SH" he replied.

She shook her head but did take the next call.

"No comments" she replied tiredly said as soon as the journalist from CAM's Global News started to question her about what she had done with him last night.

"No thank you, sorry" she declined the offer of money. The money in the brown envelopes Sherlock had given her might have felt dirty; this was downright filthy and she was not going to do it. She hung up the phone and shook her head. To think she had considered journalism as a career choice once.

A while later she picked up another one. This one was trying to trick her by pretending to be a client. First clue.

"Same treatment as I gave Sherlock Holmes?" she laughed. "Oh you couldn't handle that… you can put that in the headline if you want" her eyes were rolling. Way to blow a cover.

She put the ringing on silent and left her text alert on as she went for a walk just to hope to clear her head a little; she was tempted to run all the way to Baker Street and slap that fine face of Sherlock's. Hadn't he been able to figure out how much she hated speaking on the phone; and especially to strangers?

…

"What's your name?" she heard out of the blue as she was completely minding her own business.

"Sorry?" she turned her head and stopped in her tracks. "It was on the card I believe; that's where you all got my number from isn't it?" she looked tiredly at the young man in a smart suit who smiled at her.

"You're not denying it?" he cocked his eyebrow; it seemed to her that he was a bloodhound who had his first scent of fresh blood. Hers.

"Denying what exactly?" She straightened her back to strengthen the illusion of being calm.

"That you were with Sherlock Holmes last night" he reminded her and reached into the pocket of his black jacket. "What did you do with the coat? You must be cold" She only now realized she had gone out without a coat on. It was extremely cold but she hadn't paid attention. Her feet automatically started walking towards her home.

"I just borrowed it" she spoke through her teeth as they started chattering.

"So you will be seeing him again?" he was following her only a step behind.

"I don't think so" her feet walked even faster trying to get away. She was panicking "I don't like being followed" she pointed out to him. Well who did?

"Was it all for the money?" he was still right behind.

"Yes" she turned around and looked him dead in the eye "Yes, it was" she told him and walked on. All the way home.

…

She went straight into her shower as soon as she got home to warm herself up; then she went to bed and didn't get up; not interested in getting up for anything in the world the next couple of days.

She did hear the knock on the door the next day but she pulled her pillow over her head, covering her ears, so she didn't have to. The knocking stopped and she heaved a sigh of relief thinking she was safe by now.

She wasn't safe. The loud cracking sound as the door opened alerted her; someone had picked her lock. She jumped straight out of bed and glared towards the door. At least it was only Sherlock.

"Will need my coat back" he was holding her black faux fur over his left arm. He himself was in a coat just like the one he had sent her away wearing.

"Thank you" she ignored the fact that she was in her underwear and walked over to him to retrieve it. She put it on immediately to cover herself up. She coughed. Sherlock walked past her and got his from the coat-stand, folded it neatly and hung it over his arm like he had done with hers.

"Mind if I borrow some lipstick?" he went into her bathroom before she even had a chance to answer.

"Lipstick?" she asked confused. Her hand was absentmindedly playing with the plush fabric that covered her up making her somewhat decent.

"Blimey you have a lot" he exclaimed and she now stood in the doorframe looking at him going through her makeup "Black, do you even wear that?" he weighed it in his hand.

"Take a look, detective" she smirked and he noticed.

"Different surely, but no… red is too obvious" he put the 5 kinds of bright red lipsticks she owned back in her makeup purse. "Perfect!" he held up a much more subtle reddish shade. He painted his fingers red and smudged it around his lips and dried some of it off on the collar of his white shirt before he wiped his mouth with the back of his clean hand and then washed his hands thoroughly to get rid of any trace of colour on his hands.

He opened the buttons of his shirt and quickly did them up again missing one on the way and made sure to roughen up his look. Last touch was him messing up his curls with his fingers.

"I will see you" He told her and he was out of there as fast as he had come.

"Wait, but…" was all she said before he closed her door and was gone again.


	10. Blood Doesn't Lie

"Come at once -SH" was the text she received the next day and without even thinking she was already on her way to Baker Street. As she came to the door and was about to knock it was opened for her.

Sherlock gave her a wide smile and welcomed her in; she already knew it was part of what ever scheme he had put in motion.

"Hello sexy" she decided to play along and rose onto her toes to give him a quick kiss on his prominent cheekbone.

"Now what?" She looked at him as soon as the door was closed. She followed him upstairs and he showed her to a seat in the kitchen; his lab, never speaking a single word until:

"I'm going to need some of your blood" he sat down in front of his microscope. She shook her head.

"This sure is different. But sure" she reached out her hand to him thinking he was asking for a single drop of blood from her finger.

"No, I'm going to need a little more than that" Sherlock shook his head. "John she's here" he called out. Soon after John came in.

"Are you sure about this, Mira?" John looked directly at her. She nodded.

"It's just blood" she shrugged her sore shoulder. John shot Sherlock a glance and he shrugged his shoulders too. "I am a donor after all" her smile widened a little.

"Good" John spoke as he grabbed the large rubber band and used it as a tourniquet on Mira's left arm.

"Wait, the right one is better… my veins are submerged" She put a hand over Watson's. He removed the band and put it around her right instead and she changed her position to make his job easier. With her index finger she found a vein herself. "Here, this one is usually good".

"How often do you donate?" Doctor Watson wondered.

"Not often enough, especially with my blood type. O Negative. Low iron count is my enemy… I'm fairly healthy but I don't meet the donor standards. I usually take iron tablets and eat loads of liver before my appointments". As she spoke she noticed how Sherlock sat there quietly watching.

"Dedication! and not afraid of needles either" he spoke as he pushed the needle through her skin. She smiled and shook her head.

"Where are your eyes, John?" Sherlock yawned, unimpressed like always "Why would she be afraid of needles, look at her!" he pointed. She glared at him; knowing exactly what he meant.

"I was making polite conversation" John explained. "Some people don't like when you talk about things like that" John spoke as he started collecting vials of her blood.

"I can't run from my scars and it's all right" She took a deep breath; she kept her eyes firmly on the deeply dark red blood that left her system.

"Is it?" Sherlock looked into her eyes and she looked up to meet his bravely.

"What does it matter? They are there and that's that. It's all about perspective" she took a deep breath. "Hand me that squash ball" she eyed it on the table. She was talking to Sherlock but John grabbed it for her. She put it in her right hand and squeezed it hard; she knew her blood was already running slow by now. The pulses of her muscles as she rhythmically squeezed the ball helped the flow along.

"Perspective then?" Sherlock enquired

"I can choose to look at them as mistakes I made; or as a proof that I made it despite it all" she closed her eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. Clearly not impressed.

"Well I did, I think this proves I'm still alive" she reached for one of the warm vials of her own blood. Sherlock took it out of her hand.

"Alive yes" he was distant already as he looked closely at the vial as he held it up to the light. He opened it and smelled the contents. He looked at a few drops in the microscope and there was no contacting Mr Holmes for the next long while. John eventually stopped taking her blood and patched her up.

"Thank you, Mira" John coughed and he left again. Mira stayed where she was; feeling slightly faint as she kept her arm bended pressing the small piece of cotton with two of her fingers to stop the blood.

"Do you have any juice I could have? Or something else with a high sugar content?" she spoke. Sherlock was still busy running his tests. She eyed the fridge and slowly got on her feet. She grabbed the table as she felt absolutely faint now but she staggered all of the 7 steps to the fridge and opened it. The severed human hand that lay there nearly turned her stomach but she grabbed the juice box she found and opened it as quickly as she could. She took a sip and she sat herself down on the floor before she fell.

"Sorry about the hand" he spoke distantly. She looked up at him and couldn't help but admire his work despite the fact that her head was spinning. "I bet I can make Mrs. Hudson fry you some liver" he turned the gage on the microscope and dropped some of her blood into a petri dish and put some other liquid into it.

"It's all right" she leaned her head against the fridge. "But why would you need my blood? I assume you read my medical records already?"

"I did" he shook the concoction that was her blood and a mystery liquid.

"I see". She didn't see but she might as well say so. She crawled back on her feet and walked into the siting room and threw herself onto the leather sofa and closed her eyes.

…

She never noticed falling asleep but she woke up with a start at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"Not your housekeeper dear".

Mira opened her eyes and in front of her she found a cup of tea and a plate of beans on toast. She quickly assumed it was the kind lady who put it there for her.

"Thank you" she spoke and sat up carefully. She grabbed the cup by the ear and smiled as she drank the tea. Mrs. Hudson had gone downstairs already.

She wasn't hungry at all but she knew she would have to eat. The fact that Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to cook for her surely helped too.

"Thought you didn't eat in public" Sherlock called out to her as soon as she touched the cutlery.

"This is hardly public" She spoke before her first bite.

"But you're eating alone"

"This is different, I need to refuel. I hate fainting" she spoke as soon as she had swallowed the first mouthful. Soon the food was all but gone.

She got on her feet carefully and went into the kitchen where Sherlock was still busy taking notes on her blood. Her DNA. She found the cleanest looking glass in the cupboards and poured herself a glass of water. She leaned against the sink and watched him for a while just rehydrating.

"Honestly why do you need my blood?" she couldn't not ask him again.

"Blood doesn't lie" he took a breath and wrote down another note in his leather-bound notebook.

"What?" She put the glass down next to the sink

"Who are you Mira?" Sherlock put his work down and looked straight at her; his eyes narrowing.

"You already know who I am, probably even better than I do" she took a deep breath and grabbed the table behind her afraid to fall over.

"Yes I do" he put his hands together and rested them on his lips "But who do you pretend to be?"

"What?" she stumbled slightly "Sherlock I…"

"You try to come off as Irish, you drink Guinness, Irish Roses… even your name; your accent is forced and you tend to forget it. You're trying way too hard. Who are you, Mira?" she could literally feel the ice coming off of his coldness towards her.

"My mother was Danish… " she started, looking away; blinking. "I want to be everything she was not…" the words failed her miserably.

"Why?" he slanted his head slightly. She swallowed.

"What does it even matter?" her fingers dug into the table behind her turning her knuckles white.

"What is your name? Your _real _name"

"Maria Jensen, I changed it though, legally, before I came to England" she was gasping for breath as she found it hard to pronounce her old name.

"Why would you need to change your name? What are you hiding?" he looked straight through her and she started sniffling.

"I am hiding from myself; I swear that's all" she couldn't even look at him now that she felt her eyes growing damp.

"People don't just change their name and story because of a troubled childhood" he rolled his eyes. "Where is your mother, and your father?" he rubbed his chin. She wiped the tear that rolled and clinched her hand into a fist.

"I don't know and I don't want to know either" her dark eyes looked straight into his; anger evident on her face.

"What did they do to you that was so bad? Or was it you?" he licked his lips and she felt herself breaking apart into a million pieces.

"Is this why you found me? Did she hire you?" she was clinching her fist so hard it hurt. The pain was welcome as it gave her just an inch of control over herself.

"She? Your mother you mean" she could almost trace a smile on his lips.

"Did she? Why did she?" she was spitting.

"No, I don't even know who she is" he shrugged.

"No, why would she care" her entire body trembled "I never knew my father and my mother hated me from the moment I was born; never missed a chance to make me aware of it; so when I had the chance to leave I never looked back. Yes I changed my name and yes I pretended to be someone else" she pinched her arm hard just to enable her to speak at all. "Can you blame me?" she closed her eyes.

"Interesting" he smiled.

"I am Mira now, and that's that!" her voice was raised and it was all anger now; an anger she was fighting hard to keep under control. She was failing.

"Okay Mira" he smacked his lips.

"Can I go home now?" she took deep breaths as she calmed herself down.

"No, I don't trust you to be alone tonight. I need you, remember I told you" he spoke smugly. She was quiet now; staring at him.

"You think I might…" her voice was low, barely a whisper as realization hit her.

"Kill yourself, yes… I'll give you something to help you sleep and you'll be fine in the morning" he showed no emotion at all. She whimpered. "Here, you can take my bedroom again" he pointed towards two tablets on the kitchen table; his home lab. She took them without a word and  
wandered off into his bedroom.


	11. Because It Hurts Too Much

It was sunlight that woke her. She didn't want to move so she stayed where she was. She was well aware of where she was and she knew exactly what had happened the night before. Her entire body was heavy and she was sure it was not just from the medicine he had provided her with after breaking her apart. She knew this feeling all too well. She was crying silent tears that wouldn't stop.

It was shame over her own emotions and so many memories she had worked hard on supressing over the years rising to the surface like the bubbles on a lake stemming from rotten unmentionables on the bottom.

Sherlock's and her words were repeated inside her mind like a broken record and she couldn't stop it revolving no matter how hard she tried.

"Mira?" the door opened slowly about an hour after she woke and John stepped in. "I heard what happened last night, do you need to talk about it?" he put a cup of tea on the night stand. She didn't move she just looked at him.

"What is wrong with him" even speaking seemed strenuous.

"He likes to say he's a high functioning sociopath but he's also got Asperger's I think. Sometimes he doesn't know what he's saying can do to people" John crouched down to look her in the eye as he apologized for his friend's behaviour.

"But he always has his reasons, right?" she dried her eyes with the back of her hand and John nodded.

"Usually he does"

"That's good" she sniffled.

"Feel like getting up? Maybe have that cuppa and meet us in the sitting room?" John offered. She nodded and slowly she sat herself up. She straightened her back and both of them heard uncomfortably loud sound of her bones cracking. She grabbed the tea with both hands and drank it quickly barely aware that it was piping hot.

When she left Sherlock's bedroom she could hear the two men talking in hushed voices; clearly it was about her and they did stop as soon as they heard her come in; She wasn't that stupid. She sat down on the leather sofa and forced herself to look at Sherlock.

"Sorry for last night" she told him and coughed. She had accepted the fact that she would never hear that from him.

"Don't worry" he brushed it off.

"Mind if I go home now?" she asked of him. "I'm feeling much better now" she sat on her right hand that was twitching nervously. Hoping the knowing eyes of the detective wouldn't catch it.

"John?" Sherlock looked to him and gestured towards the young woman.

"How do you feel, honestly?" John looked at her. "You seem a little depressed" the doctor spoke.

"I am not suicidal" was her answer. Sherlock raised his brow. "I just want to sleep in my own bed, I need peace".

"Do you think so?" The way doctor Watson was looking at her she was certain she was being assessed.

"Yes, the worst thing that could happen to me would be a little cut, I wouldn't just off myself" she glared at him and carelessly ran a finger across her scarred arm.

"I wouldn't even want you to do that; Mira don't you think you need help?" John seemed genuinely nervous and worried for her.

"I've had help. Please can I leave?" she looked at Sherlock now with wide eyes; practically begging. He nodded attentively.

"I'll text you" Sherlock let her know. She went to the bathroom and tried to save some of her looks and dignity before she left Baker Street.

…

She slept for an entire day when she got home; when she got up she practically emptied her fridge and binged. She returned to bed without clearing her plates away and fell asleep soon after. She had no energy and she could barely muster a thought at all. Thank goodness.

Half asleep she grabbed the phone when a text came through.

"Come quickly. Need corpse -SH" it said and she crawled out of bed, took a shower and even though she knew he would see straight through her she used makeup to hide her puffy eyes. In what might have been a subconscious attempt to procrastinate she chose to walk.

She knocked and Mrs. Hudson opened with a smile.

"Oh hello again dear, feeling better?". Mira nodded but sneezed into her sleeve in the same moment.

"So sorry!" She apologized to the elderly woman.

"Better get in then; the boys are upstairs" she pointed at the stairs still smiling.

Mira made it up the stairs and smiled at both of them as they sat there; in their respective chairs like always.

…

She nearly fell asleep as she lay there slowing her heartbeat and looking peaceful. She barely heard a word of what they talked about and she certainly couldn't remember it afterwards. Something about a diamond lodged in the throat? Coins on the eyes?

She stirred when Sherlock ran his thumb over one of her deeper scars on her left forearm.

"Wake up" he whispered to her and she opened her eyes. She yawned and gasped for air.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to" she closed her eyes and got on her feet. She invited herself to sit on the couch.

"Tell me about Denmark" Sherlock sat down in his chair. She was absentmindedly playing with the very scar he had traced with his soft thumb.

"Boring country I guess, very Scandinavian and cold. The weather too" she shrugged her shoulder and tried to stay unaffected.

"And London seemed warmer?" Sherlock chuckled. John sat in his own chair too.

"More interesting at least".

"You're sure you weren't hoping to find something specific here in England? Or someone?" Sherlock inquired. She got on her feet.

"This is not why I'm here, you needed a corpse and I gave you that" She looked towards the door. Her way out.

"Sherlock" John tried to stop him.

"You also gave me your blood and allowed me to spank you with a riding crop; you give me anything I ask of you. Why not this?" He got on his feet as well. She swallowed hard.

"Because it hurts too much" She admitted and took a step closer to the door.

"Hurts? You love pain" he shook his head smiling.

"Physical pain, yes." She dug her long fingernail into the pale skin on her arm. "Best thing in the world" she smiled too. "… I think I should stop this". Her feet shuffled against the floorboards and she took a heavy breath.

"Stop?" Sherlock actually seemed confused.

"This" she flapped her hands about "It's not healthy for me. You can find someone else to experiment on I'm sure" she took yet another step towards the door.

"No" his hands balled into fists as his voice grew stern. "You're not going anywhere; Mira you need this"

"Sherlock, maybe you should let her" John said hesitantly

"Shut up John!" Sherlock yelled. Mira froze completely for several seconds. As did Sherlock now.

She suddenly held a rusty razorblade to her own throat. Sherlock's face was turning as white as a sheet. John was sat there staring with his mouth open.

"Leave me alone, now" she barely shivered.

"Mira…" Sherlock swallowed hard. He had not expected this and never noticed the blade. Which was bugging him most of all.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes" she said as she put the razor back in her pocket and walked out of there, slamming the door shut behind her.


	12. Let Go!

"Will be at your flat in 1h -SH" he was kind enough to warn her the next day. She had a fair chance to get dressed and work on her makeup and hair before she sat as calmly as she could muster in her chair by the window; facing the door. Her phone in her hand still received calls from blocked numbers but much less frequent now.

She heard the creek of footsteps in the hall approaching her door. She put the phone in the pocket of her dress and sprinted to open the door before he had barely touched it.

"Wouldn't want you to pick my lock again" she shot him a look as he seemed a little surprised. The translation of this was really that she wanted the upper-hand this time. He didn't reply. He simply walked straight in and sat himself down in her chair like the first time he was there. His long fingers were tapping on the arm rests; he was clearly impatient.

"I am kidnapping you" his eyes were scanning her flat. She stopped dead in her tracks and pulled a wry smile.

"Why would you bother telling me?" she adjusted her hair behind her ear. A nervous tick of hers she was very well aware of.

"Because I know you can still act surprised" he rubbed his chin. "Ready?" he jumped back on his feet and in a flash he grabbed her arm hard. He grabbed her coat with the other hand and dragged her out of there. She screamed in genuine shock at how fast it all was happening.

"Let go, it hurts!" She wasn't pretending. He had an iron grip around her upper arm and she was certain he would snap her bones in two.

"Shut up!" he dragged her out onto the street and into a waiting cab where he pushed her in; she yelped and lost one of her black heels on the pavement.

Once the cab was in motion she straightened herself up and glared into his eyes; she felt an incredible amount of anger overwhelming her as her entire arm throbbed.

"Hand me the razor blade" he locked eyes with her extending his open hand to her. Reluctantly she got it from the pocket of her dress and gave it to him. She had made a mistake showing her hand like that the other night. The blade disappeared into the left pocket of Sherlock's coat.

"Ready?" he barely asked her before he dragged her back out of the cab upon arriving at Baker Street. She hobbled behind him as he forced her inside. Once he slammed the door shut behind them she kicked off her one heel; wrestled free of his death grip and ran up the stairs barefoot.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called out to him as she had witnessed the scene.

"Yes?" he wondered; seeming so dazed.

"Is she okay?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson" Mira called out from atop the stairs; catching her breath; boiling still but trying hard not to show it. Mrs Hudson didn't deserve it.

"It's really not nice treating women like that" the elderly woman reminded the detective who just nodded and joined Mira upstairs.

…

"I demand an explanation!" she crossed her arms across her chest trying her best to ignore the persistent throbbing in her left arm.

"Just wait" he covered his ears with his hands for a second as he stood there. She heard John's drowsy voice as he came into the sitting room. He had been sleeping in it appeared. Most likely the result of a rough night out.

"What was all that noise about?" he yawned.

"Oh hi John" Mira waved at him as sweetly as she could manage. "Oh no, you left my coat in the cab!" she turned to Sherlock and gasped as she realized "I told you I love that coat!" she put her naked foot down.

"Well there wasn't much time when I had to kidnap you" he rolled his eyes with a grunt. He hung his coat on the wall and walked over to his chair where he fell straight into it.

"Kidnap?" John gasped. "And where are her shoes then?" he pointed to her feet.

"One on the pavement by my flat and one downstairs" She was fighting to regain her calm. She walked over to the sofa and sat down.

"I kidnap a girl and you worry about her shoes" Sherlock pointed at John who just shook his head.

"Nothing surprises me when the two of you are involved" he simply said.

…

Several moments later there were a few harsh rings on the doorbell and then a loud noise of the door downstairs being pushed open and footsteps charging up the stairs. Sherlock glared at Mira and mouthed something to her as he pointed to the floor. She jumped off of the couch and lay down; playing 'dead' as she had done so before.

"Sherlock!" an angry man's voice shouted as he pushed through into the sitting room. Sherlock adjusted the sleeves of his purple silken shirt. Looking absolutely calm and collected.

"What the hell, are you okay?" The older man asked looking around. Mira kept her position on the floor.

"We're fine" John rubbed his forehead. He was obviously slowly beginning to understand the situation.

"Is she…?" the man pointed towards Mira. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I think she fainted, inspector Lestrade… women do that apparently" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders carelessly, shaking his head at the things 'people' apparently did.

"What the hell is happening though? You kidnapping a girl like that in broad daylight?" he was taking deep breaths. John crouched down next to Mira and just for good measure checked her pulse. Her eyes fluttered open. She found Sherlock's eyes and he discretely winked at her. She yelped and jumped upon seeing him.

"Oh that!" Sherlock pretended it only now dawned on him why the inspector was there.

"You all right?" The man with grey hair asked her. She nodded slowly.

"Just a bit emotional" she sniffled. This was acting.

"Sherlock please tell me you have a good reason? We saw you force her out of her home on CCTV… even if she is your… you know… it's cause for concern! We had calls from worried citizens. Is something going on that I don't know about?" the inspector turned his attention to the consulting detective.

"I needed my fix" Sherlock winked towards her; this time in a much more obvious way. Had it been any other man it might have seemed like he was flirting or hinting at something. She stumbled onto her feet.

"So she is, then?" Lestrade grinned sheepishly.

"What is she?" Sherlock did his best to look innocent.

"Well, well! I lost the bet it seems" the older man seemed genuinely annoyed. This Sherlock chuckled at.

"Who won?" he even smiled. What ever it was he had set in motion worked according to plan.

"Sergeant Donovan and Anderson" was the bothered answer. "So; shall I assume she is safe with you then?" Inspector Lestrade looked at Mira.

"I'm all right; a bit of roleplaying is all… I will keep in mind not to provide that in the future, sir" she winked at him. He nodded and left. More than satisfied with that answer.


	13. Charlie

"About your father -" Sherlock cleared his throat and sat down in his chair with steepled fingers once it was just the three of them again. She trembled and ran her fingers through her hair getting stuck in a tangle.

"Stop" she said under her breath and shook her hand to get her fingers out of the trap that was strands of her long hair. "I know nothing about him; and I don't want to talk about it either" she bit into her bottom lip.

"You must know something; you must have been curious" he ignored her quivering bottom lip. John was taking sharp breaths.

"Of course I was" she closed her eyes "My mother wouldn't talk about him. She said it hurt too much" She looked at the wall and studied the smiley face in yellow spray-paint that appeared to have been shot at. It wouldn't surprise her at all if that was the case. "One of the few things I suppose we did see eye to eye about".

"That can't have stopped you" he touched his lips with his steepled fingertips.

"I found a picture once… of a man on some couch half asleep with a bottle of beer in his hand, it was dated a year before I was born. It said "Charlie" on the back". She was breathing through her nose as all she could see was the mental image of that one picture she found neatly tucked away with unpolished silver spoons in a drawer.

"What else?" Sherlock looked carefully at her, making a deduction of every little bit of her and her movements. Her entire body shivered.

"That is all. I never got any closer to the truth" she looked back at him. Her fingers were pressing into the skin of her sore upper arm.

"What did your mother say about him? Did he ever visit you?" he continued relentlessly.

"He did" the fingers on her other hand were digging into the leather of the couch. "According to my mother he showed up at the hospital the day after I was born and refused to look at me. Happy?" she looked right into Sherlock's green eyes. He nodded.

"No one knew who he was?"

"No, he was married apparently… I was the ultimate mistake… no one other than my mother ever met him" her eyes grew wet now and she felt a lack of oxygen in her system. John coughed.

"We need a break I think" John broke in, speaking on her behalf. Mira took deep breaths.

"No, I need to know why this is so important" Her eyes narrowed.

"Your father's first name was Charles, Charlie was a fond nickname your mother gave him. Probably felt Charles was a bit too pretentious" Sherlock rested his hand on his lips. "I haven't been honest with you, Mira". The young woman froze completely. "I will have the results of the paternity test tomorrow, but I am pretty sure about this. When I found you and read your medical records it clicked already then… the blood type, your country of origin, birth date, eye colour and the birthmark on your stomach; your name was the last clue I needed"

"How…" she spoke out of breath, still dumbfounded.

"Do you often feel like you're being watched?"

"Yes" she admitted. She felt a persistent lump form in her throat, threating to choke her eventually just like a set of strong, cold hands strangling her.

"You need to be really careful from now on; don't talk to strangers and don't go anywhere alone. You can have my bedroom the next few days. I'll sleep just fine in here" he seemed so matter-of-factly about the whole thing. She shook her head trying to escape the clutches of the imaginary hands.

"What are you saying?" she felt her heart skip at least a beat. Fear was filling her system. Panic attack pending.

"You have been stalked through your entire life, Mira, right from before you were even born. Now that you are public knowledge as a prostitute, my prostitute, you have become a liability" he wet his soft lips.

"Sherlock?" John asked, as confused as she was.

"Why don't you get us some take-away John? Mira needs to eat" Sherlock turned to him. John seemed to want to argue with him as he opened his mouth and closed it again; deciding it was best to comply. "Dim Sum will do, won't it?" Sherlock asked Mira. She nodded. Her mouth was graciously open as she tried to make sense of it all.

"Who is my father?" she finally got her words unstuck. A little too late in the conversation.

"Let's wait till after dinner, shall we?" Sherlock told her. She felt she had to accept that.

She didn't utter a syllable as they waited for the food to arrive. She didn't speak either as John placed the tray in front of her; she just ate and watched Sherlock surprised to actually see him eat for once.

"Thank you" She looked at John as she had finished the meal; she felt all too full but she hadn't had the energy to fight with Sherlock over her eating habits. Not now.

"Your father!" Sherlock broke in before John could answer her expression of gratitude. How dull. Sherlock clapped his hands together. John cleared away the trays and came back quickly. "Your father's name was Charles Augustus Magnussen" her mouth opened but not a word came out.

"You keep saying 'was'?" she uttered a few minutes later "So, he's…"

"Dead" Sherlock finished the sentence emotionlessly. A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek. "What, why?" he glared at her as the drop rained down her pale cheek followed by a second. "You didn't even know him!"

"I had questions…" she squeaked before her voice died out.

"Timing, Sherlock" John sighed as he seemed to have reminded him of this many times before. "Bedroom, Now" John rose from his chair and pointed to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Not now John" Sherlock grunted impatiently.

"We need to talk in private a bit, come now" John grabbed his friend by the arm and the two men disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock didn't seem too pleased.

She was shell shocked. She dried the tears away and no more came; she just sat there. Breathing. Existing.

"Tell her!" she heard John yell over the muffled aggravated mumbles that came from the bedroom. A few moments later they re-emerged and sat down both facing her. For some reason she suddenly felt so small in the company of these two men; even John.

"Your father was the head of several tabloid media" Sherlock cleared his throat "Have you heard about him?"

"I don't know, I might have" her voice had gone croaky. She was searching her mind for the name and a face. She wasn't sure about the results that came to her.

"He was very successful…" She could feel Sherlock was beating around the bush but she could hardly even move; let alone argue. And she wasn't even sure she wanted to hear what John seemed so adamant about Sherlock telling her. "He was also a dangerous man; which is why you are in danger now".

"But he's … dead" she had to fight to get the word out. "-and why would I be in danger?".

"You were his one mistake, like you put it; his pressure point as he would have" he breathed deeply "He might be dead, but his integrity still lives". She just shook her head unable to comprehend anything even if she tried.

"I found this" Sherlock left his chair to find a large binder sitting on his hopelessly cluttered work desk. "This is you, your life" he handed it to her; she took it and it fell into her lap. Immensely heavy. Or maybe it was her muscles failing her. Everything seemed to fail her tonight.

"…How?" her hand was resting atop of it.

"After he died the police searched his home, Appledore it's called; he had a lot of information on almost everyone but none of it was in paper form or on any form of hard drive; he had it all in here" Sherlock pointed to his own temple. "He worked his way through the world through blackmail, using people's pressure points… When I found this amongst his possessions I knew it must have had some sentimental value to it but I couldn't find the connection… until I saw you!" his finger pointed at her now. "Why don't you go and read it? I will answer your questions tomorrow, and maybe you can answer mine" he offered her. She didn't say a word she just went to his bedroom carrying the file. Her life apparently. In her quivering hands.

It was mostly surveillance reports, pictures of her and her mother; of important persons in her life. Teachers and a lot of people she couldn't recognise but from what she could read and make out were persons who might have become close to their little family but had been diverted for various reasons.

They hadn't missed a beat of her life; she read the whole thing with her mouth open and couldn't help but feel it was someone else; a mere work of fiction even. The concept of this being about her seemed way too outlandish. The first shock was one of the first reports.

"Plan has failed; baby girl born 3 weeks premature at 06:59 on March 24th 1990. Half dead but alive. May not make it through the night. Apgar score of 1/10". Plan, what plan? Had 'they' who ever 'they' were poisoned her mother? Maybe she really was in danger.


	14. Healing The World With a Cup of Tea

Hours later she looked at her phone to see the time. It was 4 in the morning and she felt absolutely restless. Everything felt too unreal and she couldn't make herself look at another report or picture. The last straw was learning that they had blackmailed and paid off her teachers to mark down her grades considerably.

From what she could read they had wanted to do everything in their power to damage her status and credibility later in life. All her life she had believed she was stupid; no matter how hard she tried her efforts were always in vain at school and at a point she had simply given up and accepted her apparent lack of intelligence as a fact.

She carefully opened the door and walked through the unlit sitting room on her tiptoes. She saw the outline of Sherlock sound asleep on the couch curled up with a low snore in the dim light. His blanket had ended up on the floor.

She walked over and picked up the blanket and put it over him as carefully as she could not to wake him.

She smiled as she went into the kitchen to find a glass in the cupboards. She took it to the bathroom and filled it with water from the sink and took it into the bedroom.

She grabbed her phone and looked through her few contacts; another thing 'they' apparently were the reason for. They had made sure she never had any friends to confide in; should she ever learn the truth. She looked at her mother's number and heaved a sigh. For the first time in her life she actually felt like calling her. She quickly forgot about it; her logic being that it was way too early to call anyway. And she really wasn't in the mood to be called unmentionable things once again.

She looked at the open file and turned the page. She couldn't handle more tonight and she couldn't sleep either. She wanted to go for a walk, just walk and walk until she finally felt tired. She didn't though; she remembered Sherlock's warning. Vividly in fact.

She went back into the kitchen remembering the tablets he had given her the other night when she had the meltdown. They had worked wonders.

"Good night. -SH" she eyed a yellow note on the kitchen table with two pills placed on it. She smiled and took her medicine. Of course he had known already; just like the other night. She went back to the bedroom.

She put the file away and stuck the yellow note in as a bookmark. Moments later she was out like a light.

…

When she woke up she felt rather dizzy and walked into the sitting room. She sat down on the couch and smiled at Sherlock who stood in the kitchen. He was making tea in a blue dressing gown. He placed a cup in front of her once it was ready.

"Thank you, that's nice" she beamed. "It's funny about you Englishmen, you think you can heal the entire world with a cup of tea" she chuckled and took a sip. He raised an eyebrow.

"What would a Dane do, then?" he sat down and grabbed his own cup. Clearly challenging her. "Good to see you're over thinking I would poison you" he added observantly.

"Ignore it mainly; or get you drunk, that usually does the trick". She sighed and took yet another sip of her tea. "Tea is nicer though" she licked her lips. She ignored the bit about him poisoning her. If he had plans to poison or drug her the pills she had already swallowed twice were a much more likely option.

"How far did you get with your reading last night?" he put his cup back in the saucer.

"Halfway; I had to stop… Thanks for the pills by the way" she pointed to the kitchen and he smiled.

"I would give you your own bottle of those but you and I both know you wouldn't want that" he looked at her and she nodded. "This is your father's newspaper" he pointed at a newspaper that lay on the coffee table. The table was always littered with so much stuff so she hadn't noticed it; even if it had her picture on it. Wearing his coat, looking a right mess.

"If you compare those two" he pointed to another newspaper that also had her picture on it. "The other ones are much more detailed… CAM's had to write about it; they couldn't just ignore it. Too suspicious. But they are much more vague. They are the only one who put 'supposed prostitute'. All the others are way more convinced".

She honestly didn't feel like reading the papers. She didn't feel like reading anything.

"I think you should read it". He told her as she didn't take his bait. She did as told.

"I see…" she said tiredly as she had finally read it through. "Funny how much they get from a few pictures and a few phone calls… and John's blog I suppose".

"That's what they do; they create lies from virtually nothing" he shrugged.

"But you knew this would put me in danger; Sherlock why?" she put the newspapers on the table and glared at him. "I don't understand anything".

"You understand a lot Mira; you are extremely clever. Way more clever than you ever thought about yourself." He leaned forward.

"I read about my grades yes". She put her hands together in her lap. "But please tell me why".

"I had to get their attention". He clasped his hands together. "Once the secret is out you will be safe again; how would it look if Charles Augustus Magnussen's secret daughter dies shortly after being revealed? Anyone would be able to figure that one out". She couldn't help noticing that hint of anger in his voice as he spoke her father's full name.

"You want the whole world to know?" her mouth fell open "What if I don't want that?" she leaned forward a bit too.

"You have to; if you want to be free you have to" he nodded as he spoke.

"What if I faked my own death, would that get me off the hook?" she licked her lips. "That's what you did, wasn't it?" she looked into his green eyes and he closed them.

"Clever, but no it won't be enough" he rubbed his chin. "Why don't you want the world to know? It can't be to protect him".

"What about me? Why would I want to live the rest of my life as his daughter; I lived my life as the bastard child who no one really wanted. Now I'll have to live my life as his filthy secret" she huffed.

"You'll do fine" he shook his head. John walked in and both of them straightened up.

"Morning John" Mira beamed at him.

"Mira, there's another thing…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as he looked to John. "John seems to think it's incredibly important I tell you how your father died" he was rolling his eyes.

"Why? Why would I need to know that?" she looked at John questioningly. She really didn't want to know. Not now at least.

"Your father was killed by a gunshot to the head delivered at a short distance; an execution". She could never get over how cold Sherlock was about things like that. She felt tempted to cover her ears like a child. She did not need to know this. Not right now.

"Oh." What else could she answer to that?

"I was his executioner" he spoke in the same cold voice and her jaw dropped. She picked it up with her hand and covered her mouth.


	15. A Bit Melodramatic

"I think I'm going to need another cup of tea" She said about a minute later. Her mouth felt dryer than ever.

Sherlock got on his feet and wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on again. She shook her head in disbelief.

"He never makes tea" John watched her carefully. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know…" she rolled her eyes "A man who I've known for about a month now just told me who my father was; and oh apparently he killed him too" she mocked. There it was back; the anger. Showing itself in a failed attempt to be funny.

"John, have you heard from Mary lately?" Sherlock turned his attention away from her "How's the little one doing?" If looks could kill Sherlock would be dead. Twice. Sherlock pretended he didn't notice any of it as he came back with another cup for Mira.

"No, not now Sherlock" John was clearly trying to contain himself "You sort this out, now; that's the least you can do" John was gesturing towards Mira who sat there hugging her arms; her right hand pressing hard on the bruise that had formed from Sherlock's forceful grip as he kidnapped her. She felt cold. She knew the flat was warm. It was her body that had frozen.

"I made her tea" Sherlock furrowed his brow; he could be so terribly childish sometimes. Mira felt pangs of pain with each breath. She knew where this was heading and this was the last place she wanted this to happen. She had been doing so well for months and months now. "I'm sorry for killing a psychopath who was ruining people's life and was a threat to society." He might as well have stuck out his tongue as well. "Should I get you the bottle of vodka John keeps in the cupboard? Would that be better?" he turned to Mira.

Mira let herself fall backwards into the couch and lay on her back glaring up at the ceiling. She took deep breaths despite knowing each breath brought her pain. She closed her eyes and tried to disappear. To think of something else. Bunnies, kittens, pink shoes… It didn't help. She bit into her bottom lip hard and her entire face wrinkled in agony. All of the muscles in her stomach cramped and she could feel the cold sweat forming on her brow. Dammit.

"That's a bit melodramatic" Sherlock cocked his brow at her.

"Mira" she heard the doctors worried voice but she couldn't react. She was fighting hard to make herself smile. "What is happening, are you all right?" she felt him grab her wrist checking her pulse and a hand on her brow feeling her temperature.

"I'm fine" she lied through gritted teeth; she finally managed the chuckle; a movement that worsened the pains.

"Has this happened before?" Doctor Watson wanted to know.

"Yes" she was out of breath. "Talk to me; please; talk" she struggled to speak. Her hands balled into fists.

"Sherlock call the hospital" the doctor told his friend who sat paralyzed looking at the scene as he had realized this was more than a mere female overreaction.

"No" her fingers grabbed the leather sofa as she forced her eyes open and looked John in the eyes. "I've tried that… They can't help. I've got to… ride it… out" her breathing was ragged. "Talk to me" she looked to Sherlock. Begging for something interesting to take her mind away from the incredible discomfort she was in.

Sherlock cocked his brow. Suddenly brought back to life.

"Do you know the distinctive differences between different types of tobacco ash?" he sounded so excited.

"Sherlock!" John raised his voice. "Now is not the time". John kept his watchful eyes on her; obviously desperately trying to diagnose her symptoms.

"It never is" Sherlock shook his head, disappointed.

"You're not pregnant are you?" John suggested. She shook her head carefully. She could hardly move and she didn't want to either. "It could be an ectopic pregnancy". John put his hand on her stomach but she pushed it away violently.

"Don't! You're making it worse" she cried out; panicking.

"I have to; it could be internal bleeding; it could be serious!" Doctor Watson argued.

"Don't touch me" she begged; pushing the back of her head into the couch. Tears rolled from her eyes despite her best efforts to appear all right.

"Sherlock you seem to have some sort of magic powers over her; do you think you could feel her stomach for me?" John looked at Sherlock who seemed surprised. He finally complied. John didn't seem all too happy with this arrangement himself.

Her fist punched the poor couch as Sherlock pressed his flat hand into her stomach.

"Is it hard? How does it feel?" the doctor asked the detective who pushed even harder to be sure. She cried out loudly but didn't stop him.

"It's soft; no internal bleeding then…?" Sherlock asked and let go. Mira was sobbing, gasping for her breath back.

"It's… psychosomatic" her voice was barely audible as the cramps in her abdomen got stronger. "Stress…" she gave up talking and gritted her teeth; gasping. "Distract me" she forced her eyes open in a moments release from the relentless cramps. "Help me" she begged.

Sherlock was quick to grab his chance to tell her all there was to know about the 243 kinds of tobacco ash he had researched. She listened intensely. The audience of his dreams.

John stayed where he was; kneeling in front of the couch overlooking his patient carefully.

…

An hour later she carefully sat herself up. She was weak, pale and quiet.

"Thank you" she looked to Sherlock who just smiled. Finally someone actually cared about his ash. She let John take her pulse again. She was taking shallow breaths. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you like that" Mira managed a wry smile as she looked at John. He shook his head.

"Does that happen a lot, then?" he furrowed his brow.

"It happens under acute stress; especially emotional stress" she rested her hand on her stomach that felt incredibly sore. "I've been taken to the hospital a few times. Been checked for everything" she swallowed "It's not gallstones although that seemed to fit, not an ulcer, not cancer… Not anything. I was lucky this time though; once an attack like this lasted 18 hours."

"How about ectopic pregnancy? Or… a miscarriage?" Watson looked at her carefully. She shook her head.

"That would be a miracle" she chuckled. "If it's all right with you two I'll go take a nap" she carefully got on her feet and walked with small steps. "I'm fine; John" she turned to look at him.

"Have a glass of water first; Okay?" the doctor looked at her. She nodded and did as told. "I suppose pain killers is out of the question?" he called out to her as she looked through the glasses. She filled one and drank it in a few gulps. Mostly because she was too tired to do anything else. She simply wanted to sleep it out.


	16. Strange Friends You Keep

She woke up to the beautiful sound of Sherlock's violin and couldn't help but smile. What a way to wake up! It appeared to be evening time as she made her way into the sitting room to find Sherlock playing his instrument with his chin resting on it; eyes closed. John was reading a book and she smiled again. She carefully sat herself in the couch. Her place as it had become.

What a lovely cosy atmosphere the flat had all of a sudden. Especially with no one glaring at her; judging her or telling her things she would rather go on without knowing.

A while later Sherlock finished playing the tune and carefully put the violin away. Strangely he smiled at her. John coughed and put the book down.

"Mira I was wondering if I might have a look at the blood samples you gave Sherlock?" John looked at her. She giggled for some reason even unbeknownst to her.

"Why do you even ask? Sherlock didn't" she rested her hand on her stomach; she felt a lot better already. Almost like it never happened.

"I'm not him" John grimaced.

"Why aren't you" Sherlock asked disgruntled. Why were people not more like him? What a tender world that would be for Sherlock Holmes.

"So, would it be okay? I'm a bit worried" Doctor Watson let her know. She nodded.

"Not going to do you much good. There are no indicators. Just a slight increase in bilirubin but not enough to hint at any major infection or liver damage". John glared at her.

"Huh?"

"She worked at a hospital as a secretary; and blood has always fascinated her. Of course she would know things like that" Sherlock's green eyes rolled.

"Oh I didn't know. But could I? Just to be sure?" John looked her in the eye. She nodded again.

"I said yes, didn't I?"

"Thank you" John told her gratefully. He couldn't just let this one go.

"Like I said it's psychosomatic; Just a panic attack from hell" she was picking at the hem of her dress. Just then she eyed her coat hanging over the chair. A genuine smile spread on her lips. "My coat!" she outburst and Sherlock nodded.

"I had it picked up; your shoes are there too. Oh and I also got you some of your clothes and bits from your flat. No need to get home in a hurry now. Even brought your laptop" he pointed towards the coat. She now eyed the pink suitcase as well.

"Thank you!" She rushed over to her coat and emerged her fingers in the black fluff.

"It's just a coat" he huffed observing her almost annoying show of affection, and even towards an inanimate object.

"It's my coat, I got this when… never mind" she caressed the shoulder of it. She looked at her pink case and then at Sherlock. "I take it you had a look at my laptop then" she cocked her brow at him and he smiled.

"You know me too well". She sighed at that. "Great password though; actually took me a few seconds to figure it out"

"Gee thanks" she did curtsy and stuck out her tongue at him.

"By the way; that rusty razor" he reminded her. She stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him. He was shifting it between his fingers, playing aimlessly with the sharp piece of steel "It isn't rust all of it is it; this is so out of character for you" he scraped some of the brown off the metal blade. "You're a bit of a germaphobe and yet…" he shook his fingers to get rid of the dried scabs. "And why do you keep it with you at all times? You don't even use it anymore. No fresh cuts in about a year I would say" his eyes glared at her pale arm.

"It's for protection" she swallowed. "Can I have it back at all?" she felt herself grow antsy as her eyes followed the movement of her razorblade in his hand.

"Protection? You mean from yourself?" the detective smiled as he sniffed the blade.

"Yes, that is exactly what I mean. I keep that because…" Her eyes never left the blade. Uneasy. "Because I didn't cut myself just to hurt myself; I did it so I wouldn't do worse things".

"Worse?" The detective asked unconvinced.

"Things I would really regret" She swallowed trying to push down the lump that was forming in her throat. "Like killing myself" it was barely audible. Not something she was proud of.

"How would you regret that? You would be dead" Sherlock outburst, the lack of logic to this was too much for him to cope with.

"I guess it's not logical, things like this isn't…" she scratched one of her more raised scars. One that had been deep. Almost too deep. One of her last ones. "Cutting was the only thing that kept me alive some years ago" The lump would not disappear or at least budge.

"And yet you stopped from day to day; and here you are still alive" he gestured towards her. She closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh.

"No, I'm a phantom" She wasn't even fond of her own joke.

"That's true" the detective retorted. John seemed to winch.

"Mira, when you said you had help…" John broke in; his voice seeming a little strained.

"I did; saw a therapist some years ago. It did help" she shook her head and went back to the couch and sat down.

"You still want this back; your little addiction" Sherlock held the razor blade out to her in his open hand. She wringed her hands and took a deep breath.

"Protection" she corrected him; she looked away from the sharp instrument.

"You could always find something else" he closed his hand and she bit into her lip.

"That's not the point… as you already know I used that very blade for 6 years; never cleaned it… it grew dull and I applied more pressure. It had to be this one. Nothing else had the same effect. It was a friend" she was almost spitting as she glared into his eyes. Unaware she had dug her long fingernails deeply into her skin.

"Like your coat? Strange friends you keep" he raised his right eyebrow at her. She released her nails from the skin on her arm and a drop of blood formed.

"Why do you do this?" she spat at him. Her eyes narrow with anger. "I could leave, I could leave right now and never come back".

"You could yes, but you're not going to"


	17. Anger

"Can I ask you something?" She coughed as she calmed herself down letting the anger leave her system. It was no use. She had to change the subject. "The things you did, that I did for you… did you really need that? It wasn't just because you hate my father is it?" she looked carefully at him. He put the blade in the pocket of the blue dressing gown he was still wearing. She was well aware of this.

"I've never had a living subject before; I couldn't resist" he dried his lips with the back of his hand. "A living corpse… that's what you are, Mira. Never really alive and yet miraculously not dead" he wet his newly dried lips.

"That's another thing; Sherlock why didn't they kill me? Why did they allow me to grow up at all?" she looked towards the bedroom where her file was resting. This was the one question that had bothered her most about this whole thing. She didn't like to admit it but it was what she would have preferred.

"Your mother was much more docile and pliable as long as you were alive. You were not only Magnussen's pressure point but also your mother's. If she should ever have even thought about disclosing the secret he would use you to set her straight, and he did". The clever detective explained. "If they had killed you your mother might have been inclined to seek revenge".

"So they just decided to make me into whatever it is I am today; weak, broken?" she looked to him. For once she actually wanted him to deduce her. Tell her exactly what she was.

"You're fine" he nodded. "Isn't that what you usually say? That you're fine". He smacked his lips. "You suffer from depression; too many emotions towards too many memories. You can't let go and yet you've forgotten half of what actually happened. You're excellent at deleting stuff but some things just won't stay in the bin, and things you do want to remember won't come back; but you're trying hard to get everything in order. Do you have a mind palace?".

"Right…" she watched him carefully. "Mind palace… I don't know". She coughed. Her throat felt a little rough.

"I think you do; You just haven't cultivated it. It's how you keep order on the chaos that is your mind" he pointed at her head. She rubbed her temple. "When you have to remember something; what do you do in your head? You flip through pages of a book, or go through drawers, or look for files in a computer or something else?". She cocked her eyebrows at him.

"The computer thing I suppose… sometimes it looks like a huge chest of drawers. So that's a mind palace? That's what you use right? That's your clever thing" she wet her lips that grew dry with her tongue.

"It's a memorization technique used by people of intelligence, quite useful when you know how to. It's how you cope with your dyscalculia as well. You memorize and store the numbers and answers to math problems".

"That wasn't in the file; I never told anyone I was dyscalculic I wasn't even diagnosed".

"Like I said your mind palace isn't quite cultivated; not perfect yet". He smiled at her. "But nearly; you're such a clever girl! Visual memory too, right?"

"Kiss already" John spoke under his breath.

"What?" Sherlock and Mira outburst at the same time, perhaps a little too fast; both shocked at the mere suggestion.

"So you're just going to spend the rest of the night complimenting each other's intellect?" John laughed. Mira's mouth was open and Sherlock's eyes were rolling.

"Actually I would like a shower; would it be okay?" she asked Sherlock who nodded. He seemed a bit too happy at the ticket out of this subject.

"Figured you would; I also took your soap and shampoo from your flat. I know how you are with your habits. Strange scent combination though; cheapest in the store was it? You could afford better" he pointed out.

"Well I like the passion fruit scent… and… what does it even matter?" she walked over to her suitcase. She kneeled in front of it and opened the case to find the bottles and went to the bathroom to get the shower she was so graciously allowed.

"You're angry with me, being passive aggressive doesn't suit you" Holmes pointed out just before she closed the door a little too loudly. She didn't reply.

The feeling of the water hitting her body was refreshing beyond words, even the stark sting of the water running into the smallish cut her nails had left on her arm was welcome. She took deep breaths and emptied her mind slowly, picking the weeds so to speak. She closed her eyes as she cleaned her body as well as her mind.

When she was done with her shower she put her dress back on and went straight to the bedroom. She did hear Sherlock call out her name but slammed the door in reply. Maybe he was right; she was angry.

…

Mechanically she grabbed the file and continued her reading; this time she knowingly decided to pretend it was all just a story. This made it easier to read about these things; much easier actually. They knew so much, too much. They even knew about the things she hadn't told anyone and wouldn't want to either. Things she was too ashamed of. She could have cried her eyes out but she decided not to. It wasn't like crying would help what happened 11 years earlier.

What made it worse for her re-reading her darkest moments was that Sherlock Holmes, that annoying git, had read the very same reports. Seen the same pictures taken from a distance. The tell-tale signs of someone knowing what went on and did nothing…

She punched the pillow as her face furrowed in anger. That one night that changed her entire life more than 'they' had managed to through their lifelong manipulation. What kind of people allowed a thing like that to happen; and just took more pictures through windows? Who the hell did 'they' think they were!?

The promise she made herself not to cry was broken as she read: "15th December 2003. Annette Jensen have been informed not to press charges against the perpetrator as to avoid public attention to Maria Jensen. Maria Jensen's contact with a Mr C. Larsen will be limited to major events in the mother's presence". When she had finally decided to tell her mother 2 years later it had nearly killed her; to hear her mother blame her for what happened. Telling her not to get the 'good boy' in trouble. She had seen it as an act of heartlessness and hate from her mother's side. In fact her mother was protecting her. To think what her mother had gone through…

With tears streaming down her face Mira stumbled out of the bedroom.

"Sleeping pills, please" she sent Sherlock a pair of puppy eyes; soaking wet puppy eyes. "I can't deal with this" she point towards the bedroom where she had left the file.

"You sure you're not getting addicted to them?" he seemed completely unaffected by the crying woman in front of him. Watson gasped.

"I need to sleep, I need to get away from… that" she pointed at the bedroom once more.

"Aren't you angry with me?" He crossed his arms across his chest.

"I don't bloody care!" She practically screamed. "Pills or I… I'll jump out of that window… I'm not strong enough okay!" She didn't really want to jump out of the window she pointed at but she was desperate.

"Kitchen" Holmes sighed.

"What is happening here?" John asked confused; his eyes darting from Mira to Sherlock and back again.

"I think Mira got to December 15th 2003 in the file; or is it May 7th 2005?" he looked to Mira seemingly hoping for a moment to shine with his brilliance. She breathed through her nose and glared angrily at him. Her fingers twitched.

"You're… I don't even know!" She fumed and went to the kitchen to find her tablets. She picked them up with quivering fingers and swallowed them with difficulty this time.

"What is that?" John asked Sherlock.

"Nothing!" Mira called out as she stormed to the bedroom to retrieve the file. She stormed back out and slammed it on the table in front of the two men, John jumped startled. "I am done with this; I don't care; I'm not going to read a word more of this. Sod this!" She was spitting.

"You really don't want to know how it ends?" Sherlock was still unaffected by her livid show of emotion.

"I know how it ends; it's my story! It's me! I'm a bloody person and they had no right!" Sherlock wiped her spit off of his face and she took a step back. "I have spent years forgetting about that stupid night; how could you do it!?" her fist punched the file and the tea cups on the table rattled. John's eyes were wide. "Are you that cold!?"

"Mira can we talk, in private I mean?" Watson looked at her trying for the life of him to find a way to calm her down. He knew Sherlock would only make her worse; much like throwing gasoline on a raging fire. She nodded and walked into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Shaking with anger. John followed her and closed the door behind him.


	18. Playtime is Over

"What did you read? Can you tell me?" he asked her in a calming voice. A voice he must have adapted as a doctor. She shook her head.

"I haven't been able to voice it since I finally told my mother years and years ago; the reaction then was not really what I needed… It's bad I guess, but… I'll live, I'll be fine" she hugged her arms. "Can't we just forget all this, please?"

"You don't seem fine, Mira… your attack earlier, threatening to kill yourself; your scars… You're not exactly the picture of mental health. I can find you help if you want" he looked into her eyes and more tears ran down her cheeks as she closed her eyes, dripping off her black eyelashes. She shook her head.

"I tried help, remember?" she felt like a mere child in his presence. "John, why do you care about me?" her bottom lip quaked as she spoke. He smiled carefully at her.

"Because I'm human; people actually do care about others" he told her softly. "And I'm a doctor too…"

"My therapist told me that too; that people actually care and I should let them." She let him know "It just feels easier to accept that no one cares; I get nervous when people start caring…"

"Of course people would care; you're lovely!" She shook her head with a small smile forming on her lips at his words. She yawned. "I'll leave you to get some sleep; all right?" the kind doctor told her. She nodded and lay back. The pills finally took effect.

…

When she woke up she faced the file; that bloody file, lying on the bedside table. She gritted her teeth. Sherlock must have put it there while she was asleep. Why was he so damned persistent about this thing?

Her suitcase was also placed in the bedroom during the night and she got herself out of bed to find a dress to wear. As soon as she got dressed she went to the bathroom to comb her hair and wash her face. Her eyes were slightly puffy but she ignored it. Putting last night's embarrassment at the back of her head. Moving forward.

"Good morning miss Jensen" a soft, almost melodic male voice she hadn't heard before greeted her as she left the bathroom and went into the sitting room. She looked around and laid eyes on a man in an expensive and extravagant looking suit. A man who seemed to care a lot about his looks and how he presented himself. Very well groomed and in his hand he held an umbrella. She froze.

"Where's Sherlock and John?" her entire being shuddered and yet she tried hard to supress it. She was not keen on showing her weakness to a stranger. He could be dangerous. He could very well be one of 'them'.

"Out on one of their little adventures I believe" he spoke with spite in his voice. "Miss Jensen would you please come with me?" he pointed with his umbrella at the door.

"Come where? And why?" she crossed her arms across her chest.

"Time to go home; Sherlock Holmes has had more than enough of your services; he needs to focus on his work now" the condescending tone of voice sent shivers down twisted her spine.

"He told me to stay here" She wasn't sure it was wise to take a stand against this complete stranger. Sherlock had told her she was in danger and he seemed to be right. But it was all she could do not to start sobbing. She couldn't let fear take over.

"I bet he did; but playtime is over. I need you to stay away from him." He let her know. Holding his stance. His voice felt like shards of ice in her ears.

"Who are you even?" she desperately needed to know.

"I have a certain interest in Sherlock Holmes. He is paying you a lot for… whatever it is you do… I really don't need to know what; but don't worry you will be reimbursed greatly if you follow me now and leave him alone". She shook her head.

"What will you do to me if I don't? I happen to like it here" she wet her lips and winked at him; she was slowly getting into the character Sherlock had built for her.

"I think you better do as I say; you will find 5 grand in your flat when you're dropped off" he informed her. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened.

"What makes you think I'd take that?" she glared at him; actually slightly angry at the thought of being bought like that.

"Oh I think you'll find you will" he walked towards the door.

"I might be a whore but I happen to choose who I do or what I do for money!" She spat. She was getting a bit too well into character.

"If you don't follow me I will have you taken care of. Those 5 grand could be linked to an unsolved robbery, murder even; you could end up in jail for the rest of your life. Now come with me, please" he rolled his eyes; obviously more than bored with her stubbornness.

"At least allow me to get my coat" her toughness cracked as he nodded and she found it on the chair as well as her black heels.

She followed him into a black car and was dropped off at her flat just like he had promised. Her head was full of escape plans the entire way there. She tried to remember how and where to kick in order to get away should it come to that…

"You don't contact him; you don't answer his texts; you stay away" he told her coldly just as she stepped out of the car. She gave him a fake smile and walked up to the front door.

…

On her coffee table she found a large stack of notes. She cringed at the sight and quickly put them in that drawer with Sherlock's money. She sat herself down on her bed and felt her head begin to spin. She laid down and curled herself up and fell asleep.

…

She recognised that constant feeling of anxiety that filled her system as she woke up and stayed with her the next few days as a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach, a cloud inside her head and a strange sensation in her limbs.

Her chest cramped slightly each time her phone chimed with a text from Holmes and she could hardly make herself read them.

"Baker Street. Now -SH" most of them said. She couldn't. She physically felt she couldn't leave her flat. Certainly not go and see him! What about that strange man and his cold threats? Would he have her killed? Either way she was not safe. People had already been at her flat.

One text stood out though. But she didn't pay too much attention to it. Mostly because she had already accepted it as the truth.

"Paternity test checks out - SH"

…

A couple of days passed and the only contact she had with the outside world was Sherlock's texts that she never replied to. Her windows stayed shut and her curtains drawn.

She stood in her bathroom staring into her mirror trying to recognize the face looking back at her. So much had happened in her life these last few weeks. So incredibly much, and she hadn't kept track of herself throughout.

She couldn't decide if she looked older or younger. She was sure she didn't remember those wrinkles next to her eyes. But somehow she seemed so small and so like a child. A weak child.

She tried to tell if she had lost weight or gained. She couldn't be sure. Logically she figured she would have lost it but she couldn't see it.

She covered her mouth not to cry out as there was a knock on the door interrupting her erratic stream of thoughts. That was it she was sure. This was how it ended. But how would they do it? A gun? Strangulation? Poison? Would they force her to commit suicide? Perhaps it wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

She tiptoed to the door and carefully took frightened a look through the peephole. She gasped as she recognised the man on the other side. Her hands balled into fists.


	19. Not Hungry

She opened the door slowly and allowed Watson in; he was carrying her pink suitcase.

"Thank you" she said sweetly. Almost sickly sweet as he put it on the floor of her sitting room and took a look around, taking in the way this woman lived.

"Sherlock said you'd need this with you, uhm what happened?" the kind doctor looked her over from a distance as she stood there; her arms hanging loosely.

"Nothing" she beamed. She was an expert at faking her smiles. An expert at making the entire world believe she was just fine.

"You sure? Did someone threaten you?" he took a step closer to her and she took one back. "Sherlock seems to think so". He was looking directly into her eyes.

"Don't be silly" she giggled. "I just figured it was time to give him the space; I'm sure he misses his bed, that couch can't be good for his back" she opened her fridge. "Can I offer you something to drink?" she looked at what she had. She hadn't opened the fridge since she was dropped off by the mystery man.

"Water is fine" he let her know and she closed the fridge again and poured water from the tap in the nicest glasses she owned. "I do have tea too" she looked at him as she handed him the glass. She nearly spilled the content as her hands were trembling terribly. He smiled at her. Trying to calm her nerves.

"How are you doing?" he sat down in the chair and she just smiled as she sat herself down on her bed straightening her back.

"I'm all right, Doctor" She didn't know if she was. She most likely wasn't.

"When was the last time you had something to eat; you seem awfully pale… I had a look at your blood; you were right about the bilirubin; it didn't tell me much. I know this isn't easy to answer but are you bulimic?" She was taken aback by his question and she shook her head. He seemed completely uncomfortable asking her as well. He swallowed.

"Oh, the potassium level" she remembered a few second later "No; I've not had to throw up since I was little". She decided not to tell him about the nagging feeling in the back of her head that she might have anorexic tendencies. "I guess I'm just a bit too fond of green peppers".

"Have you considered training as a nurse? You know an awful lot about all of this" he let her know, fondly, and she smiled. Genuinely this time.

"I'm a secretary and I know I'm a good one; well I was… I haven't had any work since I left Denmark". Mira admitted.

"I'm sorry but how do you live then, I mean what about money?" he took a sip of the water. She licked her lips. He seemed keen on keeping her talking.

"I earned a bit of money once I came here, to London I mean… Sherlock is not the first time I've been an experimental subject; and I'm sure he knows that too" she put her hands in her lap. "I was employed by a dominatrix who needed to test and perfect her methods and she paid me generously." She explained calmly; like it was the most normal job in the world "Don't look so scared" she chuckled as his eyes widened and he put down the glass, taken aback by her bluntness nearly chocking on the liquid. "I did it gladly; the money was just an added bonus really; I needed to be abused; to be set straight". She licked her lips. "And I have to admit I was flattered that a woman like Miss A would even grant me the light of day".

"I see" Watson swallowed hard and grabbed his glass again and took a large gulp seeming to wish it contained something a bit stronger. "I do come with instructions from Sherlock" he took a deep breath. Mira nodded and took a tiny sip of her own glass. She had known that from the second she saw him through the peephole. "Firstly I'm not to leave before I've seen you eat something". This she rolled her eyes at.

"Not hungry" she let him know. She honestly had no appetite.

"He said you'd say that. But I agree with him this time." He looked at Mira and she sighed. She left her seat on the bed and opened her pantry drawer. She was sure she had some biscuits somewhere. She did but she just couldn't make herself pick them up. She closed the drawer.

"Here" Watson walked over to her and handed her a red apple from his jacket pocket. "From Sherlock". She took it and turned it in her hand. Inspecting it for a bit too long. She rubbed it against the fabric of the dress she couldn't remember when she had last changed. The skin of the apple shined in the dim sunlight diffused by the drawn curtains. She swallowed hard. She couldn't. She wasn't hungry.

John looked worried at her as she put it to her quivering lips. She took deep breaths and felt an urgent need to run to the bathroom. She bit into it and felt the juice from the fruit moisten her dry mouth. She nearly gagged but she chewed the bite and swallowed. It was a struggle but she managed to finish it with damp eyes.

"Thank you" Her voice was broken as she put the apple core on the kitchen counter and covered her mouth.

"You're welcome!" She gasped at the sound of Holmes' voice. She looked around to spot him. John held out his phone and she realized he had been listening in the whole time. She couldn't hold the apple down for long.

She sprinted to the bathroom. Doctor Watson was right behind her and grabbed her long hair and held it away from her face comforting her as her entire being retched. Other than the apple her stomach was empty but her system took a while to be satisfied. She got on her feet as soon as it was over and rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the hand towel. Shame was written on her face.

John went to her kitchen and poured her a glass of water and added sugar and salt to it. He stirred it with a spoon and gave it to her. She took it but wasn't too pleased to drink the content. She nearly spilled it too as her hands were trembling.

"Mira who was it that threatened you? It was Mycroft wasn't it?" She heard Sherlock's voice through the phone as she took a sip of the liquid.

"Who?" she gasped for breath as she put the glass down.

"His brother" John explained. Her mouth opened. That had been his brother?

"I told you I just wanted to go home, after all that commotion… I made a right fool of myself" she looked to John and his phone. She knew she might get away with lying to John. But with Sherlock listening in it was a losing battle.

"I know it was Mycroft" Sherlock commented with annoyance in his voice.

"What if it was?" she took another gulp of the concoction just to get rid of the revolting taste of bile that was still there despite the strong minty toothpaste. "He made it pretty clear I had to stay away". She heard Holmes groan.

"I'll come and fetch you" She heard him say and he hung up. John put his hand on her forehead.

"When did you last eat anything?" the doctor repeated his question from earlier and she heaved a sigh.

"I don't know; at Baker Street maybe" she purposely avoided eye contact. She was trying to remember her last meal. The days had all muddled into one. Forcing herself to remember the last time she ate only added to the nausea.

"I have a tummy bug" she lied. She knew very well why she wasn't eating. It wasn't like fearing for your own life suddenly made you immensely hungry. Quite the contrary!

"That was days ago! You're going to collapse!" The doctor was appalled. "Finish that glass" he pointed to the water, salt and sugar mix he had made for her. She did as told.

.


	20. He Wasn't Stopping

"Sherlock's brother…" she spoke faintly as she walked over to her bed to sit down. John seemed a little too right about her ending up collapsing. "How dangerous is he?" She put her hands on the bed to support herself.

"He has… how do I put it… he pretty much is the British government" John explained calmly.

"So I'm really in trouble then… oh great" she said as jokingly as she could.

"I'm sure it's just one of his ways to spite his brother; those two… oh boy" John chuckled. "Kindergarten all over again!"

"Can't you call Sherlock and tell him not to come here? I'm not comfortable with this…" she shifted her position nervously. She could feel her heart rate rise; beating against her chest. Her fingers twitched.

"And you think that's going to help?" he shook his head, smiling.

"I don't trust him… I don't trust anyone… I don't trust you" She got on her feet and nearly toppled over. She felt extremely lightheaded. "What did he do that apple? Poison?" she walked towards John who took a step backwards. His mouth open, the smile leaving his lips.

"I'm sure he didn't, Mira take a deep breath now. You're getting yourself worked up" he held his breath as his back hit the wall.

"Am I?" she tilted her head, glaring at him. "People want me dead" she spat at him. "Why wouldn't I think that you would too?" she was hissing now and was about to jump him any second. She lost control. She wasn't herself.

She felt a sharp prick of pain in her shoulder and strong hands grabbed her and turned her around; away from Watson. She glanced into steely green eyes. And just before hers turned glassy and she slid to the floor she heard his stern voice:

"Don't you ever touch John!"

…

When she came to she found herself in a bed. Just as she was about to sit herself up and take in her surroundings and decide if she should go into flight or fight mode the same strong hands pushed her back into the sheets. One of the hands held her face and pressed her cheeks together to force her mouth open and put a filled feeding syringe to her lips; using his elbows to keep her in place. A white and sickly sweet substance was pushed into her mouth and he continued to hold her until she swallowed reluctantly. She quickly realized she couldn't fight him even she wanted to. He was too strong.

"Good girl" Sherlock beamed proudly. He continued to hold her until she moments later closed her eyes again. She had no idea how many times this scenario was repeated. For days, weeks maybe? She was desperately trying to count the times she opened her eyes. But she was too dazed by whatever drug he used to keep her under.

…

One of the many times she was awoken and been fed like some sort of poor wounded animal; had swallowed and nearly gagged on the horrible stuff; this time she stayed conscious. Her eyes wide open.

His hands were still holding her in place as Sherlock climbed into the bed with her. The slender and tall man weighed her down with an inhuman amount of weight for a man of his stature. Mira wanted to kick him off with a playful scoff, thinking he was only messing with her.

She couldn't. She couldn't move a muscle in her body no matter how hard she tried. Her voice was gone as well as her muscle control. Her mind was trawling through the likely causes. Was it the drug? But then why had he held her down? He would know if it paralyzed her. He was a trained chemist.

His hands seemed to be clumsily exploring her torso and his neatly cut nails dug deeply into her skin on their way. His eyes were dark as they glared into hers. They didn't seem like his eyes at all. From the way he was hurting her so easily she figured she was naked. Why was she naked? Why…

How had she ended up so vulnerable?

She felt everything as he grabbed and groped her. As he pinched her she heard herself calling him all the horrible names and words she could think of inside her own head. Her lips never moved.

He seemed so adamant on hurting her; it was as if it was his carnal need in these moments.

The sound of his ragged; excited, breathing sounded way too loud, almost as if it came from herself. He grunted as he leaned in; towering over her and bit into her cheek with his teeth.

His long musicians fingers rested on her hips and held her firmly in place, pinned to the bed.

"There's no fucking need, you fucking bastard" she screamed at him inside her head. Hate and revulsion surging through every fibre of her paralyzed body. The situation dawned on her and the sinking feeling of having no control at all over what was going to happen to her body was too much to handle.

He moved onto his knees and with those fingers that seemed like the claws of a beast he pried her legs open. Positioning himself between them. She wanted to close her eyes. Just go back to sleep. Not even this could she control. She was forced to watch.

He felt like a fire, an unquenchable and all devouring fire. He branded her insides like an iron taken right off a bonfire. She was empty inside. Just watching his sweaty brow move back and forth on top of her. His damp curls sticking to his forehead. She tasted the salt as drops of his sweat rained onto her.

She was convinced his hands had ripped the skin right off her hipbones. He was panting like a steam train, ever charging forward; tearing her up in the process. And all she could do was lie there and take it. Praying that she would faint eventually.

He seemed possessed; or rather he was the demon himself. A fire breathing dragon with a vengeance. She was in a world of physical pain so much so she could barely feel a thing.

She finally gained half an inch of control and looked away. She glared at the wall. For once in her life interested in the build up of the periodic table; terribly interested 'He', that was Helium right?

She couldn't focus though; the walls behind the poster began to melt like fresh buttercream on a cake right out of the oven. The melting walls exposed a blackness. Nothing but empty blackness.

He wasn't stopping…

He wasn't…

He wasn't…

It wasn't…

It wasn't real.

…

She knew it had been a dream, a very disturbing dream none the less. The next time her eyes opened to the world. Sherlock looked carefully at her as he fed her. Some of the stuff spilled onto her lip and he gently wiped it off with a handkerchief.

"Sleep well" he whispered as her eyelids were already heavy.

The last thing she saw this time was him standing himself up correcting his suit. She couldn't help but admire his neat dress sense.

He didn't seem human at all. But he surely was no demon.


	21. Why?

When she swallowed the substance this time his hands left her. She looked into his eyes. Full of questions. Her throat was too rough from being unused for anything other than swallowing for a while that she couldn't voice any of them.

She wasn't falling back asleep this time. Instead of her eyelids growing heavy she actually felt how she became increasingly awake and alert to the world around her. She wriggled her toes. Not paralyzed. Thank goodness.

"Sorry it had to come to this" he left the feeding syringe on a small plate sat on the bedside table and dried his hands with a handkerchief. "We need you alive, remember?" he reminded her. She nodded and lay back.

The remnants of her dream slowly vanished into thin air as just that.

"A week has passed; come" he extended his hand to her and pulled her out of the bed; answering one of her many unspoken questions. Her muscles were weak and he practically had to carry her into the sitting room. Something that didn't seem to suit him.

She jumped at the sight of Mycroft sitting in John's chair and John standing on the floor next to it. Sherlock lead her to the couch where he she sat her down. She gave him an apologetic smile. Knowing she had been a bother.

"Miss Jensen; my brother has informed me of your case. I seem to have jumped to… conclusions" Mycroft explained, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. She blinked. Confused. "I will contrary to our first arrangement be of assistance if I can". She squinted her eyes. She stifled a yawn. Still groggy from the drug.

"What is happening?" her voice was barely audible and she felt nauseous. That sickly sweet taste of that mystery concoction Sherlock had forced her to swallow was overpowering.

"I think what he means is sorry" John offered himself as a translator. She nodded.

"You were pretty convincing though; could have fooled me" Mycroft let her know tiredly.

"She did" Sherlock reminded his brother. Glancing fondly at Mira. She remembered John's words about these two and their childish feuds. She could see that now. And she had been Sherlock's pawn.

"Well it's half true though" the elder brother retorted. Mira heaved a sigh.

"That was not prostitution" She still felt weak but she couldn't not comment.

"Oh it wasn't?" Mycroft raised his brow. "Then what else would you call taking money for sexual favours?". John was looking straight at her too. She shook her head and propped herself up using the palms of her hands. She was scared she might fall back asleep. She had slept far too much for her own liking already.

"It wasn't sex… she was experimenting" she shot Sherlock a glance. "Much like our arrangement" she ran a hand through her hair and cringed. She needed a shower. It was horribly greasy. "But that's all in the file I'm sure" she took a deep breath.

"Yes I know" Mycroft said and her jaw fell open. No. just no! The anger building within her erased every sign of fatigue.

"Who haven't read that stupid thing?" she hugged her arms. Her eyes shot daggers at Sherlock. How dared he torment her like that? Why couldn't he just resort to beating her with a riding crop?

"I haven't" John let her know. A small comfort at least.

"You know it's important that I know what I'm dealing with here, miss Jensen" she was informed by the man in the grey suit. Sitting in John's chair. She was burning to tell him to stop using her last name to patronize her like that.

"You are unbelievable" she rolled her eyes. "You've just had me drugged for a week, god knows what for… and here we go again. What… I mean what is going on?". She glared at Sherlock. Even he must have been able to read the anger and desperation on her face.

"You'll be pleased to know we are close to tracking down the men who are following you" Mycroft took a sip of his liquor.

"Does this mean we can do this without exposing the secret?" she perked up. A small smile on her lips born out of a feeble hope.

"Dull" Sherlock shook his head.

"It wasn't enough shooting him, was it? Brother?" Mycroft spited the detective who rose to his feet that very instant.

"Don't 'brother' me" Sherlock's voice turned dark and Mira bit into her lip. "And no it wasn't". Mycroft put his glass back on the table.

"He was still my … father" the word didn't sit right in her mouth. Perhaps it never would.

"He didn't care about you!" Sherlock turned to look her dead in the eye.

"Oh didn't he?" she got on her feet too. She was just finding her footing. "You said he kept that file out of sentiment! It must have meant something!" she raised her voice.

"SIT DOWN!" Sherlock bellowed at her. She practically fell back into the couch. His hands had balled into fists. She was honestly scared of him. Her chest cramped.

"Sherl-" John was interrupted by Sherlock's icy cold eyes glaring at him.

Mira was shivering. But she began chuckling.

"Aren't you adorable?" she commented on the feuding brothers.

"Miss Jensen I…" Mycroft looked at her in bewilderment. Sherlock was just standing there. Glaring at her. His chest rising and falling.

"Leave, now" Sherlock looked at his brother "You too, John. Mira you stay there" he instructed them, pointing at them like a conductor of a play. Mycroft reluctantly got on his feet and left. Shaking his head at his brother's childish outburst. John shot Sherlock a worried glance and out of the door he was as well.

…

"Here" he walked over to her. She was still shivering. Desperately trying to predict what was going on. But who could with him? He grabbed her hand and prised it open. He returned her rusty razor blade to her. Mira's mouth opened. Eyes widened.

He sat down and watched her sit there. Frozen. Unsure what to do with the tool, the old 'friend', in her hand. It felt like it was on fire.

"Cut yourself" he steepled his fingers. Observing her.

"Sherlock… I…" her hand closed around the dirty, sharp piece of steel.

"It's an experiment, just cut yourself please" the 'please' was spoken half-heartedly. She didn't move. She couldn't.

"Cut yourself" he repeated the order coldly.

Her fingers where shaking as she put the blade against the skin of her scarred left forearm. She couldn't look at what she was doing. She kept her eyes locked on Sherlock. Too ashamed of what she was doing to herself. She liked the familiar feeling of the pressure. She hated that.

Her two front teeth sank into her bottom lip as she applied just enough pressure to her own skin for the blade to pierce through. Her fingers stopped trembling instantly. She swallowed hard at the sensation. The sting and the instant gratification. The pain giving her a sort of thrill.

She felt sick to her stomach. She dragged the blade along her skin; leaving a long cut. She didn't have to think; the movement was built into her fingers just like the phone number to a good friend might have been. This was second nature to her. She repeated the same cut three times to be sure it was deep enough and she put the blade on the table in front of her. Her eyes closed. She never looked at it but she knew the razor had her fresh blood on it.

She felt the blood slowly trickle down her arm. The hairs standing on edge. She took a deep breath. She could practically feel how the pain shooting through her serrated nerve endings was giving her pleasure. A pleasure she had tried so hard to forget about. She felt as if gentle hands welcomed her back into a world she had been running so far to escape from. She felt the calm inside. The nothingness that was so much better than the alternative.

"Why?" she whimpered. Tears filling her eyes as she looked at him. His eyes locked on her arm. She couldn't help but wish she would wake up to him feeding her. That this was just another stupid dream.


	22. Please Forgive Me

He didn't answer her. He just leapt from his seat and landed next to her on the couch. He grabbed her arm and leaned in and sniffed to smell the fresh blood on her skin. Still oozing from the cut. She flinched when he put his tongue to it. Tasting the crimson liquid that was once inside her.

He reached for a paper towel that was intended for sniffling clients and dried the cut; pulling at the skin around it to open it further to aid his view of the damage. Studying it closely. The pain was almost overwhelming. But not in a bad way. Not bad at all…

He took his magnifier from his pocket and continued to conduct his study in silence. He was concentrating and making mental notes on the hesitation marks. Not that she had hesitated much once the blade had pierced but the traces were always there when the victim had been inflicting the wound to themselves. She gasped at him; his face close to hers. She felt high. So incredibly high.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Smelling his skin, his perfume and the scent of his shampoo. He shied away from her lips and finally took his eyes away from her cut. He closed the magnifier and returned it to his pocket.

"You'll need stitches for this, I'll get John" he told her calmly and got on his feet, correcting his shirt. She took a deep breath. "You cut a bit too deep this time"

"No!" she exclaimed. Gasping for air. Crashing back to reality from atop her little cloud. "Don't tell him, please… please don't" she was practically begging him. She couldn't bear the thought of John knowing what she had done. Perhaps it was because he actually seemed to mind.

She grabbed a paper towel and put pressure on the wound. Hiding it in the process.

"I can stitch it… I've done that before" she told him; she was frantic. She was shivering. Her worst fear in these moments was John looking at her in disapproval, maybe even anger. It was an incredibly sobering thought.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked at her in a mix of awe and disbelief.

"Just give me a sowing needle, a lighter and some thread… It'll be fine!" Sherlock shook his head.

"John!" He called out. Figuring John wouldn't be too far away, John didn't trust him to be alone with her. Wonder why.

"No!" she screamed at him. Too late. The door opened and there he was. Instinctively she put her hand behind her back. Dropping a blood soaked paper towel on the floor.

"Mira needs medical attention" Sherlock put his hands on his back. Mira was shaking her head. Giving one of her well-rehearsed smiles.

"I'm fine!" she had used that line too often before.

"What happened?" John looked from Mira to Sherlock and back again.

"I…" she was desperately searching for a likely scenario. She couldn't for the life of her find a fitting excuse. All her old stories didn't apply. There was no broken glass, no sharp edges or stairs she could have stumbled on. Not to mention he was a bloody doctor. He'd see right through it.

"She cut herself in the kitchen; wanted to get herself a slice of bread and slipped, she's clumsy like that. Right?" Sherlock saved her, winking. She tried not to smile too widely at him. Scared John wouldn't buy it.

"Yes" she nodded. John shook his head. He had already eyed the bloody razor blade on the coffee table.

"You allowed her to do this to herself?" John was spitting in Sherlock's face.

"It wasn't his fault" Mira felt a tear roll down her cheek. She felt sharp jolts of pain coming from her cut. Her arm was burning hot. Her fake smile fading.

"Show me" John sounded almost forceful as he took a few steps closer to her. She carefully moved her arm in front of her. She still didn't dare look at her 'work'. Sherlock retreated to the corner and let the doctor take over. He never took his eyes off them though.

"I'm sorry…" her voice was trailing off. She looked into John's eyes with a set of puppy eyes. "Please forgive me".

"No, don't you dare apologize to me" John told her, shaking his head. "Come with me, we'll take care of this" he comforted her and took her into the kitchen. Having her sit in the same chair that she sat in when he had drained her blood for another of Sherlock's little schemes.

Doctor Watson got the well-stocked first aid kit out and opened it; sitting himself in front of her. She just sat there holding her arm out to him. Allowing him to help her. Catatonic.

"Ow!" she complained as he dabbed the wound with disinfectant. Her face contorted in discomfort. She had always hated how that stung. But the smell of it had always calmed her at the same time.

"Sorry" John smiled at her. He was trying to lighten the mood. She didn't reply. She just sat there, going back to her frozen state. "I think we'll be all right; I have some medical glue. It will hurt though" she nodded slowly as he explained. She saw everything but she wasn't there.

"All done" John put his hand on her shoulder when her arm was now wrapped neatly. She had flashbacks to dirty cloths and sloppily self-sown stitches. A lack of care for her own body and wellbeing.

"You're mad at me" she squeaked.

"Worried" he corrected her. "You need help".

"No" she was shaking her head. "It was just one mistake, please give me another chance" she was running her right hand over the white dressing.

"Mira, people care about you" he held onto her shoulder. Her hand rested on the neatly done dressing.

"I know, it's just… I'll be fine" She smiled to comfort the poor worried doctor.

"Why did you do this, can you tell me? The truth I mean" he was looking directly into her eyes trying to retrieve an answer.

Because Sherlock told me to. That was the truth. Wasn't it? But had she said no? She just did it. Fell right back into her old habits

"I wasn't thinking". Great. Way to sound like a psychopath. One way ticket to a lovely stay in a locked ward; strapped to a bed, deemed a danger to herself. "But I won't do it again, I swear" she was shuddering. Hoping he would believe her.

"Sherlock" John called out to him. The detective calmly stepped into the kitchen.

"Yes?" he looked at the doctor and the patient. His hands still pensively behind his back.

"What happened? Tell me every detail" Mira closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. Praying silently that Sherlock would save her this time.

"I might have pressured her a bit and she must have found the blade in my dressing gown when I wasn't looking, I guess she just snapped for a brief moment, needed a release" he shrugged his shoulders. Mira nodded. Agreeing to the lie. "But I doubt she'll do it again".

"When you were cutting, Mira, what used to trigger you, back then I mean, before you stopped?" John looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Stopped. She had stopped… but what was all this then?

"It started out as a way not to cry when I was 13; I hated crying… mother said I looked ugly when I cried" as she spoke her eyelashes got soaked. "Eventually I got addicted" her hand resting on the dressing begun to caress it carefully. "I got high on the endorphins and the adrenaline… when I was 20 I went cold turkey; I had to stop… I had to… I had to win" she sniffled. "Didn't even do trigger therapy. I did know all the tricks though… ice chips pressed in your hand, rubber bands, squash balls. I never used any of them. I just… and now… I…" she wasn't making much sense anymore.


	23. Baker at Baker Street

The young woman had started humming a tune the two men hadn't heard before. It sounded like a sweet nursery rhyme.

John got up and put the kettle on. And she stayed there, humming. Trying to remember the words in her mind. A small smile breaking through onto her lips.

"Why don't we have a quiet evening in; we could watch some telly? I'll see if Mrs. Hudson will bake us a cake" John offered. Mira perked up at the mention of cake.

"Cake? I can bake a cake". She mentally returned to the room. Pretending like nothing had happened. She heard the kettle begin to boil.

"You, bake?" Sherlock laughed mockingly. She smiled kindly at him.

"Just because I'm not a fan of food doesn't mean I don't cook. I'll need flour, eggs, sugar and do you have any frozen fruit?" she looked at the two men.

"We do" John opened the freezer "Raspberries, is that all right?" She nodded. John helped her find the rest of the ingredients she had requested and she found the mixing bowl herself and off she was. John brewed three cups of tea.

"Perfect! We'll have cake in 35 minutes" she smiled. Deep inside she knew this was textbook for her; She would do anything to appear normal.

"Waste of mind palace space" Sherlock shook his head in disapproval, commenting on her storing recipes and other utterly useless things. He left the kitchen, taking his tea with him.

She just smiled as she measured the sugar and beat the eggs into it before folding in the flour. She poured the batter over the frozen berries and into the oven it went and she set the timer. John smiled as the scent of the baking cake filled the kitchen. A much neater smell than what horrible and sometimes obnoxious fumes usually emerged from it.

"You've baked that a lot then" John commented. He handed her a cup of tea, she wrapped her fingers around the warm china.

"It was my mother's favourite" She let him know and took a sip of the tea. "Especially with raspberries". She took another sip. "It was one of the few things I could cook when I left… but I never really get to cook for people". She was still smiling.

"It does smell good" John took his own cup and took a sip.

Sherlock had turned on the TV and turned the sound up, perhaps a little too loud so he wouldn't have to listen to their useless small talk. John and Mira looked to the other and they went into the sitting room and found their seats. Sherlock's eyes were rolling at the chat show that was on.

Mira's throat went dry as she sat down and placed the cup on the table next to the blade. Her blood on it had thickened. Not yet dried. She dared not touch it. She felt her arm throb. Reminding her that it had not been a dream.

"He's obviously lying! Look at the collar of his shirt!" Sherlock outburst and gestured angrily towards the telly and John heaved a sigh. She was staring at the collar of the man on the screen's shirt. She couldn't see the connection. But the distraction was welcome.

"Do you mean that little smudge? A sign of nerves, he's fidgeted with it?" She tried. She had already embarrassed herself. Sherlock looked at her, raised his brow and then back at the telly.

Finally the timer went off. The cake was ready. Mira almost ran to the kitchen. She turned off the oven and opened the door. The sugary goodness greeting her there made her smile. Proud of her creation. She found a potholder and went to take the cake out of the oven.

"Dammit!" She cried out as she threw it on the kitchen counter. She had used the wrong hand. Her skin had been in direct contact with the scolding metal of the cake tin. She was waving her hand around and quickly turned on the tap and held her hand under the cool water.

"What happened?" John was there in a flash. She grunted.

"I'm an idiot!" she spoke through gritted teeth. John reached for a clean bowl and while holding onto her wrist to assess the damage he poured water into the bowl.

"Here" he handed her the bowl and she submerged her hand in the water. "Keep it in there until the pain stops". He told her. "It's not as bad as it looks" he let her know. She nodded and hated that tear in the corner of her eye.

"That'll be in a few hours then… When do I learn?" she chuckled but her face told a different story.

John helped her back to the couch. Sherlock seemed absolutely unaffected. Mira placed the bowl on the coffee table in front of her and her eyes widened. She blinked. It was gone. The razor wasn't there anymore. Where was it? She forgot all about her burned hand. All she could think of was the whereabouts of that blade.

Sherlock would have taken it… right? Or maybe it had slipped under the couch, she could have knocked the table a bit and it could have fallen… it had to be here somewhere. It couldn't be gone. Please god. It couldn't be gone.

"What happened to the cake?" Sherlock said a while later. Breaking the silence that had fallen around them.

"Mira burned her hand!" John reminded his friend who seemed especially annoying and oblivious tonight.

"Yes, but I heard she managed to put it on the counter" Sherlock retorted. John grunted but got on his feet. He returned with 3 plates of the freshly baked cake.

"It's actually… all right" Sherlock spoke with his mouth full of crumbs and raspberries. Mira was playing with her piece. She was still trying to figure out the fate of her 'friend'.

"I will return your little 'friend' in a few days. Right now I have it in a petri dish; I'll run some experiments" Sherlock let her know. He had noticed her nervous twitching and eyes darting around the place looking for likely hiding places. She nodded and took a bite of the cake. Not too bad.

"Thank you" she said as she swallowed.

"Why don't you help us tomorrow? We have clients coming in…" Sherlock told her. "You can be our secretary, now that you're here anyway" he shrugged.

"Sherlock, I don't think she should be exposed to…" John gestured. Lowering his voice. Sherlock cocked his brow.

"I think Mira is capable of speaking for herself" he let John know. "Just take notes, sit there and say nothing" Sherlock instructed her. She nodded. She didn't mind.

"Mira some of the stuff can be really… uh, harsh" John looked worriedly at her. She was slowly taking her hand out of the water to see if the heat was still burning through the layers of her skin. It was. Her hand went back under.

"You're talking to a girl who would prefer hard-core horror stories or info books on preservation of dead bodies when she was a little girl. She can manage" Sherlock nodded. So did she. So it was settled.


	24. Yes, Mr Holmes

After two hours of watching the telly Mira took her hand out of the water. It was red but it was hardly even throbbing anymore. John was right about it not being as bad as it had seemed at first. But then again burns always seemed bad as the damage occurred. She went to the kitchen and poured the water into the sink and left the bowl there. She yawned.

"John?" She said as she carefully walked back into the sitting room. "If I was to take a shower… what about the dressing? I have never… you know, I've not had a proper dressing done before" she wet her lip and looked nervously at him.

"Really?" Doctor Watson looked surprised. Of course he would. He had seen the scars and with his medical expertise he would know how deep some of them had been.

"Mira prefers doing her own stitches" Sherlock mentioned. Mira's eyes studied the carpet.

"Anyway, I'd like to have a shower" She looked up at John. She ignored Sherlock. "I feel really dirty, it would do me good".

"No worries, I'll find a plastic bag we can wrap around it" John was already on his way to the kitchen. He found a large plastic bag and a roll of tape. Mira couldn't help but giggle as he wrapped her up like that. "Just be careful, it's not completely waterproof" he let her know and she was on her way to the bathroom. Not bothering to ask Sherlock for permission this time.

It was a struggle for her getting out of the nightie without the full use of her left hand and arm. But eventually she got herself undressed and turned on the water. She rushed through the shower and grunted as she was drying her hair. She glared at herself in the mirror.

She looked fat. She looked horrible. She breathed in. She had borrowed Sherlock's shampoo and the scent filled her nostrils.

"Stupid idiot" she whispered to herself in her native tongue. Her fingernails were clawing desperately at the wet plastic bag to remove it from her arm. Her eyes grew damp. "You broke our promise" she scolded the woman in the mirror. "How could you?" Her face didn't seem any prettier now that it was filled with anger and remorse. She felt sick to her stomach. "Never, never again" She looked into her own eyes and nodded at the promise she made herself. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling that it would be a tough one to keep.

She got herself dressed and put on a brave face as she marched into the sitting room.

"Good night" She winked at them "I'll see you in the morning then". Sherlock nodded.

"First client will be here at 11 tomorrow" Sherlock told her briefly not even looking at her. John was looking at her, smiling kindly.

"Good night" he told her and she walked back to Sherlock's bedroom and shut the door behind her. She sighed and climbed into bed and laid herself down. She closed her eyes and tried hard not to think.

Flashes kept coming before her eyes as she lay there alone in the darkness. Sherlock ordering her to cut herself, the dream she had while drugged and something she did not expect. Her mother's voice.

"You look like a zebra, you do know next step will be heroine, right? I raised you better than that!" She shuddered. That was about a year after she had stopped on her own devise and her mother had finally noticed a habit her daughter had kept hidden for 7 years.

She took deep breaths and slapped her own cheek as hard as she could.

"Shut up" she grunted at her own thoughts and closed her eyes even harder. She focussed on her breathing and hoped that it might allow her to sleep eventually. She was sure she could ask Sherlock for some of those magic pills but she would rather go without.

…

Somehow she must have fallen asleep. But at 6 am she woke up. She was itchy and couldn't find rest so she got out of bed and tiptoed into the sitting room. Sherlock was sound asleep on the couch; once again having dropped the blanket. She walked over to pick it up and put it over him. He stirred slightly but remained asleep.

She turned her head to look to the kitchen. Where had he put her razor. A petri dish he had said. But where? She was not going to do anything stupid. Certainly not planning to. She just had to know where it was… just in case… Just so she could breathe.

"Mmmh" Sherlock mumbled in his sleep and she jumped startled. She had already forgotten he was there. Her mind was too busy thinking about her razor.

She went into the kitchen. His lab. She started opening drawers as quietly as she could; trying to look through the strangest collections of stuff without stirring anything; most of the stuff she either couldn't or wouldn't want to know what was for or where it might have come from.

He would know she was doing this. He already knew. Didn't he? Of course…

She finally saw it. Sitting in a sticky substance in a petri dish, still with her blood on it; only it had dried by now. She covered her mouth feeling absolutely sick at the thought of what he could cultivate from it. She closed the drawer and drew a sigh of relief. At least now she knew where it was. She was absentmindedly scratching the dressing.

She went back to the sitting room and sat herself down in John's chair as silently as she could. She had no idea how long she sat there watching the detective sleep. He would stir; mumble, snore… and eventually he kicked off the blanket again. She walked over to put it back on him when his eyes shot open and he looked directly at her. She took a step back startled.

"Mira!" he exclaimed. She swallowed.

"Morning, sunshine" she beamed.

"Don't do that" he yawned and sat himself up and ruffled his curls that were already messy from sleeping.

"Tea?" She was already on her way into the kitchen.

"What are you doing up?" He asked her as she was putting the kettle on. "Ah, stupid. You found it, didn't you?" He called out to her. She sighed and looked for the cleanest tea cups. "I hope you didn't touch anything" he groaned. She put a smile on her face and brewed the tea in silence. She returned to him with his cup and sat down, crossing her legs and sipped of her own cup.

"Wouldn't dream of it" She reassured him sweetly. She knew her cheerfulness was annoying him and right now she just couldn't help but keep it up. "Not a morning person, are we?" she put the tea down. Still with that obnoxious grin painted on her face.

"Neither are you" He grabbed his cup and took a large gulp. "Not as good as Mrs. Hudson's brew" he let her know. She shrugged.

"So since I'll be your secretary what do you prefer I call you; sir or Mr. Holmes?" she winked at him and took her cup again, perking her lips and blowing softly on it.

"What did you call your Dominatrix?"

"Miss A, or just Mistress; depending on the situation or her mood" She swallowed and sipped the tea.

"Ah, Just Mr. Holmes then" he got on his feet and disappeared to his bedroom. He came back a short while later looking absolutely perfect in a suit. White crisp shirt, black pants and jacket. He went to the bathroom and when he reappeared his curls were no longer a mess. Nothing about him was a mess.

"I picked your outfit, it'll be on the bed" He said as he sat down and grabbed his tea to drink the rest of it. She nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes" She winked at him and went to the bedroom to find her clothes.


	25. Please!

Those were not her clothes though. He must have gotten them for her. A pair of tights; the expensive kind with a black line going up the back of the leg, a black pencil skirt with a slit up the left leg; a bit shorter than she preferred, a mint green silken shirt and a black blazer. Even the black lingerie was new. She swallowed.

She got dressed, stepped into her trusty black heels and grabbed her makeup purse from her pink suitcase and rushed to the bathroom.

Mira looked at herself in the mirror. She did feel that the clothes really made her look like a secretary. She found her brush and was trying to gain control of her long unruly hair then applied the makeup and went for the reddest lipstick she had. She nailed the brief. She thought.

…

"… Mira" John greeted her in the kitchen with a surprised look in his eyes. He must have just gotten up.

"Morning John" she winked at him. John swallowed. He was staring at her. "Something wrong?" she wondered innocently as she corrected the shirt.

"No, you're perfect" he shook his head.

"Can you approve, Mr. Holmes?" She turned to face Sherlock who had returned to his own chair and nodded coldly.

"It'll do" he shrugged. "When the second client comes in can you undo a few buttons? I have to test a theory". She nodded.

"Sure" She complied and sat herself down on the couch; crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap. She grazed her burned left hand with the right. It was certainly survivable.

"Pen and paper" Sherlock pointed to the table in front of her and she eyed the tools of her trade.

The trio had toast for their breakfast and soon came the time when the clients started showing up. Mira sat on a wooden chair in the corner jotting down most of the information. She was careful not to miss anything. Yet she knew Sherlock really didn't need this. Not her notes anyway.

After the first client; a little girl whose dog had run away and whom Sherlock made cry by informing her and her mother that the father had run over the dog by with the car and couldn't own up to his mistake. Mira undid as many buttons of the top as she dared.

In came a business man and his wife. Both seeming anxious. Mira could feel the man's eyes on her as she sat there silently scribbling. She tried to appear ignorant and unaware of the unwanted attention. Her mouth felt dry and she found herself adjusting her hair.

"How many secretaries have you had over the last year?" Sherlock asked the man who had been explaining his case. A missing wedding ring of a high value.

"5, but why is that important?" The man cleared his throat.

"Oh that is very important" Sherlock rubbed his hands together.

"You had to find a way to pay them off so they wouldn't file sexual harassment charges; your ring isn't lost. You pawned it" Sherlock informed the couple. The wife was quick to slap her husband. "Oh, and you can stop looking at her, she's mine" Sherlock winked as he showed the couple out, having solved yet another case. The wife was shivering in anger. "Never work for that man" Sherlock told Mira just loud enough for the couple to hear before he closed the door. Mira's hands were on her buttons covering herself up to a point she was much more comfortable with.

"Thank you for the advice, daddy" she rolled her eyes.

…

Several hours passed with clients coming and going and as suddenly as it had started it was over. The flat was empty save for Sherlock, John and her. She swallowed and scratched her left arm. She couldn't stand that silence. Ugh. It was way too loud.

"I've got some stuff to do…" John coughed and left.

"See you then" Sherlock told him and let him leave. Mira felt there was an unspoken understanding between the two men.

Mira was taking deep breaths as she got on her feet. She walked over to the work desk and placed her notes. She couldn't find rest. She stood by the windows and looked at the life outside on the street. She saw John haul a cab. She needed to take her mind off the urges she didn't want to be feeling. She would do anything for a distraction.

It wasn't enough. She needed something to happen. Her hand was scratching harder at the dressing hidden by the blazer.

"You loved her" She heard Sherlock's voice cut through the dead silence. She shuddered. She kept her eyes on the street below. "You allowed yourself to fall for her". His voice had dropped an octave or two she was sure. The sound was an eerie presence in the darkening flat.

"Who?" she tried to appear unaffected. Composing herself the best she could.

"Why else would you carve the letter 'A' into the skin on your left breast?"

"I carved a star into my hand as well, so does that tell you I've dated Ringo Starr?" she retorted. Her fingers intertwined with the heavy curtains.

"The placement of the A tells me it was a romantic involvement; most likely one-way. You wouldn't have done it while you were still working for her, she would have seen you naked; so it would have been done after she let you go."

"Stop" she shivered. "Yes, yes I fell for her, and yes I made a silly mistake… she kicked me out and I didn't know what to do with myself".

"Suicide attempt, of course! You really are a romantic" he mocked. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply.

"Shut up!" she hissed. Her fingers clenching around the fabric.

"Pills was it? Carved that A and then you chickened out before taking them?"

"Shut up!" she turned to look him dead in the eye. She swallowed and ran to the bedroom; slamming the door shut behind her. Panicking. Her fingers were searching for her pockets; seeking for an outlet. It wasn't there. Sherlock had it. Her blade.

Her eyes quickly found the riding crop that had always been sitting there on his dresser. Yes. That was what she needed to happen... She grabbed it with her shivering hands and stomped back to the sitting room with it.

"Hit me" she put it on the coffee table in front of him. He tilted his head and steepled his fingers. "Hit me!" she whimpered "Take it, and hurt me, please" her bottom lip was quivering. Her body was numb. He didn't move a muscle. She knew she was out of her mind and she looked it too.

"Please" she was about to cry but rushed the tears along. "Please" she cried.

"Why?" He pretended to look confused.

"I can't… I need this… I… just please, please I beg you" she was drying her eyes with her hands. She should have used waterproof make up. He cocked his brow at her.

"I'll do anything, I will… just… please do this for me" she looked into his eyes. He got on his feet and grabbed the riding crop. Without a word he went into the kitchen and cleared the kitchen table neatly.


	26. Battered

"Get up there" he pointed to the table. She bit her lip. Her breathing was shallow. "On your stomach" he was cold as ice. She did as told, kicking off her heels. Shuddering. The tears continued to fall.

"Thank you" she whispered as she lay down; positioning herself.

"Shut up" he said as he raised his hand holding the riding crop. The first blow to her calf was extremely painful, and so was the second, the third the fourth... She made sure she felt it all. She needed to feel it. She had to. Her face couldn't hide the pain she experienced with each blow and he surely wasn't being kind this time.

"Stop" She heard herself whimper by the fifth blow. Her fingers were digging into the table; knuckles turning white as she tried to cling to reality. Tried to stay in the room. Stay with what she had started.

"Shut up!" she heard him groan, only adding insult to injury. The riding crop hit her another time. It felt like lightning bolts and she feared she might pass out. She instinctively curled herself up in a ball trying to protect herself and felt a few hits more and she cried out at each of them. Whimpering in between.

She was a sobbing wreck by then. It wasn't just the angry throbbing in her leg; the insane amount of pain that wouldn't seem to end… it was the fact that she had asked him to do this to her and now he wasn't listening to her begging him to stop; that she couldn't take any more.

She couldn't tell if he had stopped or if it was her body still signalling to her brain that something was seriously wrong with her.

She flinched when she felt something touch her face; she couldn't focus on what it was. She closed her eyes and drifted off; her body shivering. Her battered leg twitching.

"…No" she slurred as she felt hands hold her. Any touch, anywhere felt painful and forceful; felt like a threat to her life. He was picking her up and carried her into the bedroom. As she hit the sheets she curled back into the quivering ball. The foetus position trying to protect herself from the attacker.

He pulled the covers over her and squatted to look at her. She wasn't there. Just her body reacting to the pain. He was admiring her. For years and years her strong mind and stubbornness had helped her ignore worse pains than this; and this time she allowed herself to feel and it had been completely overwhelming for the young woman.

Her entire body felt like it was on fire; she was constantly and frantically worried that anything would touch her as even the gentlest caress felt like a knife stabbing her. A cold sweat was beading on her jittering skin.

She cried out as she felt the needle in her arm. She thrashed and tried to get away. It was way too late. She was already feeling the effects of the drug.

…

When she woke up the first thing she registered was a cold feeling. The last feeling she could remember was that chaotic burning sensation surging through her body. She moved ever so slightly; she remembered the pain she had been experiencing vividly. It had actually happened.

Moving her leg she heard a strange crackling sound and in a state of panic she ripped the covers away. For a second she foolishly thought her leg might have been replaced by something.

Just an ice pack. Oh thank heavens. Her naked leg was an angry red colour; swollen as well. The ice must have numbed it somewhat. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to put pressure on the foot. Her head was still heavy. It hurt. But she had to get up. She just had to.

"Mira!" John greeted her as soon as she opened the bedroom door in her nightie and hoppled through; one hand on the wall for support. "Oh!" John's eyes widened as he noticed her injury.

"Hello" she soldiered on through to the sitting room; finding the couch.

"What happened?" John was only a step behind her. She drew a deep breath as she took the weight completely off of the leg.

"I took a fall down the stairs" she bit her lip as she reached down to touch the bruise. What had possessed her to ask Sherlock to do that to her? Her face contorted in discomfort as she touched the boiling skin.

"And where was Sherlock when that happened?" John stood in front of her. She was battling her first instinct to turn defensive and annoyed with this interrogation.

"In the kitchen" She licked her dry lips. "I think he was conducting some experiments" she continued.

"I bet" She had a nagging feeling that John didn't believe a word she said. "Have you ever been loved, Mira?" John sat down on the corner of the coffee table, leaning forward. Her mouth opening. Baffled.

"I'm 25 years old" she replied surprised. She wasn't sure how that was an answer to his question. She really wasn't. But it was all she had to say.

"When was the last time someone gave you a hug?" He wanted to know. She bit her lip and tried to remember. The silence was answer enough for him it seemed.

"You don't think you mistake abuse for love?" he asked her. She swallowed hard. Her leg started throbbing angrily as the effects of the ice was wearing off.

"John…" she croaked, wanting him to stop.

"From what I have gathered, and no I don't know anything… but I think the people who should have shown you love; for whatever reason showed you the opposite. I understand how you would be confused" He reached out and touched her knee. Her eyes focused on his hand. She shivered and shook her head.

"Where's Sherlock?" she wondered.

"He's out" John explained "Who knows what he's up to though. He did it to you, didn't he?" John's hand didn't leave her trembling knee. The pain in her leg was causing it to shiver violently. "Lie down on the couch" he told her kindly and got up to find a Union Jack pillow to put under her leg to keep it elevated. He got her a fresh ice pack as well. "No need to protect him. I know he did" he spoke as he placed the ice pack.

"I pressured him into doing it, please don't blame him" She looked at him with damp eyes. Convincing herself it was from the pain.

"You're really fond of him" John commented

"Aren't you?"

"He's intense" John swallowed.

"That's one way to put it" She nodded.

"Has anyone in your life not abused you?" He asked her and she looked away, admiring the pattern of the wallpaper.

"That's just the effect I have on people I suppose" She shrugged bravely. "Or maybe that's just my type".

"I highly doubt that; but you need to start loving yourself, I'm sure that would help".

"Since you're an expert on the subject; can you tell me what it is then? Love?" She looked at him; her eyes seemed empty.

"No, let's try a different approach then. Mira can I give you a hug?" He asked her. The look she gave him was one of a deer caught in headlights.

"I don't think that would…" her voice trailed off.

"Just once; It won't hurt I promise. And if it feels horrible just tell me to stop". He vowed.

He helped her onto her feet and she tried not to put too much weight onto her beaten leg. She felt herself fall forward and was caught by John's arms. He embraced her and she shivered heavily. She cringed at the touch. It wasn't the fact that it was John… the feeling was just all too unfamiliar to her. She had no idea how she was supposed to react to being held like that.


	27. Relapse

Every cell in her body seemed to be rejecting his touch; so much so that she couldn't move despite her wanting to wrestle free of his hands and hide. She knew it was an act of kindness. Logically she understood it. But that was not what it felt like. She just wanted it to be over. Preferably even before it happened.

He finally let go of her and helped her back to the couch and made sure she was as comfortable as she could get.

"It's a steep learning curve; trust issues are hard to overcome" He nodded knowingly and sat himself down on the table like before. She was biting her bottom lip. She wasn't responding. She couldn't. "How is your arm?" he asked her. She looked at him, and then at the arm.

"I don't know…" In her perfect world she could go on ignoring everything completely until it healed and turned into yet another scar.

"Let me change the dressing, all right?" He looked at her and his hands were already undoing the gauze. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with the first aid kit and put on a pair of latex gloves. He was softly touching her skin, trying not to hurt her. It felt bruised, sore and warm.

"John… Why did I do that to myself?" her eyes were trained on what she had done to her own skin. She finally saw how deep it was.

"I think you were desperate and I don't blame you; and neither should you" his gloved hand caressed her cheek. "Every recovered addict can have a relapse even years and years later. It isn't the end of the world"

"Thank you" she looked at him and held her breath. John cleaned her wound and this time she didn't complain about the disinfectant.

Just as he had redressed her cut they both heard a loud sound and turned their heads to see Sherlock stumble in through the door.

"Oh good you're up!" The consulting detective said flustered.

"It's 4 in the afternoon!" John let him know; confused.

"Of course it is!" he shook his head.

Mira looked at him confused. She didn't know how to feel about him after the night before.

"Where have you been?" John got on his feet. Sherlock got his long coat off and hung it on the wall.

"Working!" he rolled his eyes defensively.

"Of course" John nodded. "Sherlock are you alright?" he asked the detective who cocked his brow at the army doctor.

"Of course I am fine!" Sherlock turned angry. His facial expressions changing in an instant. "What's it to you?"

"Sherlock… What happened out there?" John took a step closer to him. Even Mira was worried for him. Something was clearly off.

"I can see you're busy here… I'll be in the kitchen and don't interrupt me" the furious Holmes' was trying to appear to have calmed down somewhat. He was skilful in his transformation but he didn't fool the two of them.

"Are you okay?" escaped Mira's lips as she was dumbfounded over seeing him out of it.

"If you do not shut up I will give you another spanking and I swear I won't be kind this time!" He glared at her; his brow furrowing.

Kind. It surely didn't feel kind.

"Good, Now Sherlock get yourself into the kitchen and Mira try to get some rest. All right?" John coughed, stepping in before it got out of hand. Sherlock demonstratively marched into the kitchen and opened the fridge and took something out and slammed it on the table. John went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

He placed the glass on the table in front of Mira and held his hand out to her. She looked at the tablets in his hand.

"I know what you say about pain relief; but this time it's not a question" the doctor told her and she shook her head.

"I already broke one promise to myself; don't make me do this too" she looked him in the eye nervously.

"Just take them; you'll be fine I promise you! But you need some relief. Your leg is in bad shape" he persistently held out the pills to her. She wouldn't move.

"You should have put it in her tea" Sherlock sighed from the kitchen where he was looking at various samples in petri dishes.

"Sherlock, we've been through that…" John looked to his friend in the kitchen. "Please just take them and try to sleep through the brunt of the pain" he turned his attention back to her. She was shivering and she felt the heat run through her body again.

"Take John's pills or I will make you" Sherlock barked. She took the pills from John's hand and threw them into her mouth and grabbed the glass. She carefully moved the tablets to the hollow of her cheek with her tongue and swallowed nothing but water. When John finally left she spit them out and put them in between the cushions.

She did all she could to ignore the throbbing leg. She was taking control of her own breathing trying to focus on only that and eventually she pretended to have fallen asleep.

…

"Sherlock" she heard John whisper; assuming she was sound asleep. "Since you won't tell me where you were today, can you at least tell me how her leg got in that state?". She heard the detective sigh.

"John I didn't mean to hit her that hard; I'm sorry" he sounded hesitantly regretful. "I just… It got out of hand" he heaved another sigh.

"Does she know that?" John wanted to know.

"She's strong though" Holmes replied. "If she had put her guard up she could have handled a lot more than that" Sherlock tried to lower his voice.

"Just stop it, Sherlock!" John whispered angrily "She deserves better than that!". And their conversation ended there. Sherlock might have nodded.

…

She heard footsteps approach her and she tried to give off the impression that she was still asleep. She felt a hand carefully grab hold of her wrist and check her pulse. It registered as Sherlock's fingers. She felt the back of his hand lightly brush her lips as he was checking her breathing. Had she really been good enough to fool him?

"You should have swallowed those pills" he whispered to her and she opened her eyes to meet his.

"I did" her voice was low as well but not by choice.

"Don't, you know it doesn't work with me" he looked back into her eyes coldly.

"Put them in my tea then; just don't make me swallow them" she blinked.

"John put the kettle on!" Sherlock instructed. He was still holding on to her wrist.


	28. I Feel Many Things

Sherlock leaned in and gently put his hand on her bruise and pinched her toes with the other. The kettle in the kitchen slowly began to boil just like her bruise under his touch. She heard a cup being placed on the counter.

"Can you not do that?" She looked innocently at him; supressing the urge to yell profanities at him. It hurt! It hurt so much more than what she liked. He let go of her.

"If you feel any numbness in your toes please tell me, or John…" he looked at her and she nodded.

"I feel many things" she admitted.

Watson came in with a cup of tea and Holmes turned around grabbed it from him.

She didn't see him do it but she knew Sherlock had put the pills in the cup. She heard him stir the brew before he handed it to her. She stirred it with the silver spoon as well and then she took a big gulp of the warm liquid. She finished the cup in a short amount of time without looking too much at it; tried not to think of what that bitter taste was.

"And how is that any different?" Sherlock asked as she placed the empty cup on the table.

"It means it wasn't my decision" she let him know.

"Neither was that" his voice was barely audible as he grazed her fresh dressing with his thumb

"Thank you" she wasn't sure why she said that.

"Don't thank me" he dashed off back into the kitchen; to his experiments.

Mira closed her eyes and finally managed to fall asleep on the couch.

…

When she woke up she hoppled into the kitchen and sat down; watching Sherlock conduct his experiments. She glared at her razor in one of his petri dishes scattered around the kitchen table.

"Don't touch my stuff" he warned her; busy looking through the microscope.

"Don't worry" she smiled. "But what is all that stuff? Where do you get it from?" Not even she could explain why she was that chatty all of a sudden.

"Didn't I warn you not to interrupt me?" Holmes groaned at her and straightened his back. He took the petri dish containing her little 'friend' and put it under the microscope. She was scratching the dressing.

"Yes… but…" she took a deep breath.

"Do you ever listen?" the brim of his nose wrinkled. He was clearly angry and bothered.

"Too much sometimes" she was now picking at the gauze.

"For the sake of your own safety I suggest you leave me alone" he took his eyes away from his work and glared right into her eyes. The intensity of his stare nearly made her fall off of the chair.

"What is wrong?" Her face was soft and she leaned in; regaining her composure. "Sherlock, tell me" she reached out and put her hand on top of his. He slapped hers away. "I can see it on your face".

"Mira, I swear!" he was fuming.

"Beat me if you want, if it helps you. You know I won't mind" she was studying his cold eyes. "I won't tell a soul" she promised.

"I saw… something" his chest was heaving and falling with his heavy breathing. He was clearly fighting to seem calm.

"It's all right, I'm sure" She reassured him. Her stomach churned though. It would have to bad to rattle someone like Sherlock Holmes.

He shook his head. He then coughed and his face was drained of any trace of what might have been emotions.

"Oh by the way I called your mother the other day" he was completely out of context and it shook her. She leaned back. Frozen.

"You… what?" she could literally feel the blood draining from her face. She turned white as a sheet.

"She told me-"

"No" she tried to stop him. She wasn't ready.

"She told me she doesn't have a daughter" he stated coldly. There was no hope of stopping the tear that ran down her cheek. "Not anymore at least".

"Sherlock, no" she squeaked. Why. Why did he have to be so cruel? It wasn't fair.

"What did you tell her when you left?" he continued; carelessly.

"I left her a note…" she was shivering heavily and pressed her injured calf against the leg of the chair.

"And what did it say?" he pushed on. The pain was the only thing that made her stay and not run, or even explode.

"Thanks for nothing" she felt sick as she spoke. She saw the note in her head as she left it on her mother's kitchen table the day she left for London.

"That was kind" he raised his brow. Her leg was shaking heavily from the ache as she kept pressing it against the wood. "She saw you in the papers, said she wasn't surprised".

Mira slammed her fist into the table knocking over a few petri dishes with unknown content. She got on her feet and the adrenaline from the anger that pumped through her was the only thing that kept her upright.

She walked away. Out of the kitchen, out of the sitting room; down the stairs and out onto the dark streets of London in the middle of the cold night.

She heard nothing. She saw nothing. She just walked on. She didn't have a heading. She just had to keep on going.

She registered someone pulling her aside and pressing her against a cold brick wall. She couldn't feel a thing though. She was too numb. And she didn't care either. She didn't even try to make out the face of the person in the darkness. Or even cry for help.

She registered someone yelling her name from a distance.

She was simply there while it happened. As the knife was pressed against her throat.


	29. What Happened?

As the attacker sank to the ground; she felt it like a stark awakening. She gasped for air.

"Mira". There it was again. The voice calling out her name. She blinked. Sherlock. It was Sherlock of all people standing there. With a skilled blow to the neck he had incapacitated the man who had dragged her into the alley.

"Run, back to Baker Street!" he barked at her. It took her a few seconds to register the order before she ran back the way she came. She heard a gunshot and it made her run even faster. As soon as she slammed the door behind her she sank to the floor. Unable to stand a second longer. Her leg throbbed heavily and her heart felt like it was about to beat its way right out of her chest.

What had just happened? What… what?

"John!" She cried out desperately. Soon after he came charging down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" She rambled to him "Gunshot… he… I… " She had no air in her lungs and she was desperately heaving for breath. John's eyes widened.

"Where!?" John demanded to know. Mira pointed in the direction. It was all she could do. John ran right out of the door.

Mira held her hand over her cramping chest. She was too scared to cry.

"Are you all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson appeared in her nightie. Mira jumped.

"Yes, yes!" Mira put a smile on her lips and tried to get on her feet. Her leg was shivering so bad she fell right back to the floor. "I'll just sit here for a while…"

"I'll make you a cuppa dear, you look in a right state. What's happened?" the old lady was fussing about.

"I have no idea" Mira sighed. "It's all a bit of a blur…" she admitted. That was putting it mildly.

"I'll fetch that cuppa for you, that'll do the trick!" And off she was to make the tea. Tea… always tea.

"Thank you" Mira beamed as Mrs. Hudson handed her the cup. Her hands were shivering as she held it by the ear and she nearly spilled most of it on herself.

"Now tell me what's happened" Mrs. Hudson leaned against the wall and watched the shivering girl who would do anything to seem calm.

"I went for a walk I suppose… something happened and Sherlock saved me… told me to run and I did, but there was a gunshot. John is out there" Mira put the pretty tea cup on the floor afraid she might drop it.

"Oh dear, and in your nightie, at this time of year!" the lady gasped.

Gunshot. She heard it over and over inside her head. Who had been shot? Not Sherlock, please; not Sherlock! She couldn't bear not knowing.

Determined she got back on her feet and put her hands on her knee to hold herself upright. She hoppled out of the door; she had to do something.

"Get in!" She heard a voice yell. She looked around confused. There he was; his long dark coat flowing behind him as he ran towards her. She hoppled back in and fell back to the floor.

"Are you all right?" she gasped at him as he entered with John.

"Yes, but it's more than you can say about the hit man" he took the coat off and hung it on the staircase. "What were you thinking running off like that?" he yelled at her.

John got on his knees and looked Mira over.

"Are you hurt?" The army doctor looked right into her eyes. She blinked.

"I don't know… I don't…" She stuttered. Her hand felt her neck where the attacker had held his knife. A knife, so that was how it was supposed to end.

"It's barely broken the skin, a knife?" John asked her as he carefully moved her hand to get a clearer view. She nodded and once again tried to get back on her feet. It was no good. It was the shock as well. "Sherlock help me get her upstairs". The army doctor was already helping her to stand. Sherlock squinted but had to comply.

"Lestrade might come over tomorrow morning, he'll want a statement" John informed her.

"Sure" she nodded as the two men carried her up the stairs and put her on the couch; yet another ice pack was administered. John cleaned the tiny cut on the side of her neck and put a band aid on it. She had been lucky.

Sherlock was pacing the floor in circles; fuming.

"How could you be so stupid!?" he stopped and looked directly at Mira. She swallowed.

"I had to get some air…" she tried to defend herself. But he was right. She had been beyond stupid.

"You could have been killed!" he yelled at her. She took a breath.

"So what?" her eyes grew damp. "Maybe I don't care" she said weakly.

"No, no, no!" John protested. "Sherlock ease off!" he took a stand. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he stepped into the kitchen.

"I'll get you something to help you sleep" the good doctor smiled at the young woman. She shook her head.

"I'll have nightmares… I want to be able to wake myself up" she looked into his eyes and he swallowed. "I'll try to sleep, I promise". John nodded. He didn't like it, but he accepted her choice. John gave her a cup of tea and she tasted that bitter aftertaste again. She just hoped it was only for her pain.

…

She did fall asleep and she was right. She got herself stuck in a dark and twisted nightmare. The man grabbing her and harshly throwing her against the wall. But this time the knife did more than just touch the skin on her neck. He was slicing and slicing at her and she couldn't fight. There was so much blood and so much pain…

She kicked herself awake; a cold sweat on her brow. She fell back asleep a little while after only to dream the same dream once more; only this time the man was Sherlock with a smug smile on his face the entire time. Thoroughly enjoying hurting her.

The third time she fell asleep the dream started much the same; only this time she couldn't wake and the scene soon changed to a night long ago she had fought so hard to forget. And there it was; in every detail. Every second of her thirteen year old self fighting for her life and dignity at the mercy of a man she had trusted…

She finally woke up gasping for air; tears streaming down her face. Her eyes scanned the room and it was a comfort at least to find she was still at 221B Baker Street. Her entire body felt sore. Her mind was tired and she was emotionally drained. The nausea took hold of her. She sat herself up and tried to straighten her back. She was crying silently. The entire place was silent. Dead silent. Too silent.


	30. Look alive

She noticed the yellow sticky note on the table.

"At Scotland Yard, will be back at 1pm" She figured it would have been John who had written the note; she knew Sherlock's handwriting.

She sighed. She didn't feel right being alone. The silence was the worst. She could hear her own thoughts; hear the memories her mind was forcing her to revisit.

She searched for the remote to the telly; which was a bit of a task in the messy flat. As she came across the black gun she put her hand on it just for a brief moment. She had never touched a real gun before… She had a toy gun at home; the kind that shot orange darts with a suction that could never adhere to anything. This was real. It was metal, black and cold. It had killed a man the night before… the man who was going to kill her. Instinctively her hand rubbed her neck.

She picked up the gun and weighed it in her hand. It wasn't as heavy as she would have thought. Tears were still streaming down her face as the bad memories were played in her head on repeat in the background. It wasn't a conscious act when she put it in her mouth. It just happened. She tasted the metal and the residue of the gunpowder. It reminded her of the taste of her own blood. A taste she knew too well.

She couldn't pull the trigger. She just stood there for a while; the barrel of the handgun resting on her lips and teeth. This was too final. Way too real for her. She couldn't do it. Carefully she put the weapon back on the table where she found it. She shook her head. She finally found the remote and turned the telly on; finding a music channel.

She went to the kitchen and quickly eyed her 'friend'. It was no longer in the petri dish; it was in a zip bag and had been cleaned thoroughly. Gone were the ancient layers of dried blood.

She unpacked it carefully and put it to her arm just above the dressing. She bit her lip and removed it again. They couldn't know. John would see it. Sherlock would torment her about it. She sat herself down on the kitchen floor and hoisted up the nightie and opened her legs. She cut the inside of her thigh and as soon as she broke the skin a smile crept on her lips and the constant stream of tears stopped. She took deep breaths and made a few cuts more; just to extend the feeling of the calm inside. She sat there; leaned back just enjoying the feeling. Her mind had finally been put on mute.

She got back on her feet and found the first aid kit; she sat back down and poured disinfectant into the fresh cuts. Her fingers stretched and balled into fists at the stinging sensation. She came back to reality then. Realizing what she had done. Her mouth opened and her fist hit the floor.

The regret was instant and she felt even worse than before. Luckily the cuts weren't too deep this time. But they were there; and they shouldn't be. She put band aids on all of them and got on her feet and put the first aid kit back exactly where she found it. She rinsed the blade and put it back in the bag and tried to place it exactly where she found it on the kitchen table.

She went back to the couch and watched the telly. At least she was facing the screen with her eyes open. Her mind was busy telling her what a failure she was for breaking the promise once again. How weak she was to let something like last night and stupid dreams control her life. John would hate her; he would think she was a terrible person… and Sherlock, Sherlock he would tell her the same.

Did they even care about her? Of course they didn't. No one cared. And why would they when even her own mother had disowned her and still assumed she was nothing but a worthless whore. She was only in the way and last night Sherlock might have been hurt or even killed because of her and her stupid problems.

She couldn't even kill herself. She couldn't do anything right she thought as her eyes were peeled on the gun on the work desk.

Her mind decided to replay the time John had talked to her about caring; he had said that he cared. But did he really? Wasn't it just something he was supposed to say? He had said it himself, he was a doctor and doctors were supposed to care, at least pretend to.

An idea came to her then and she acted fast. She went to the kitchen where she remembered a flask of fake blood sitting in one of the messy drawers. She found it and looked at the time. Sherlock and John would be back half an hour later. She wasted no time and poured the fake blood on the lino in the kitchen. She ran to get the gun and she lay herself down; the back of her head resting in the pool of the sticky theatre gore. She lay sprawled on the floor; her hand still on the gun. And she waited.

…

As she heard them come home she worked on slowing her heartbeat down; just as she did when Sherlock had made her play dead. She held her breath.

"She might still be asleep" she heard John warn Sherlock before they carefully opened the door.

"Mira, we're back" she heard Sherlock call out to her as he would have seen she was not asleep on the couch. "No!" she heard him yell. "Mira!" he ran to her.

"Oh god, no!" She could hear how John was struggling to even speak.

"Come on, look alive!" Sherlock almost sounded frantic as he kneeled in front of her and grabbed her wrist. She heard him sigh. He felt her pulse. "She's still alive!" he called out to John. He started slapping her cheek. "Come on, live!" She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

"You do care" she sat up. Both of the men looked at her with open mouths. Sherlock grabbed the gun from her hand and got back on his feet and put it back where she found it.

"What on earth…" John's eyes were wide. She rubbed her cheek that Sherlock had slapped trying to awaken her.

"You care" she couldn't help smiling while tears ran down her cheeks.

"Of course we do!" John was shaking his head. "Mira do you have any idea?!" his hands balled into fists as he raised his voice. She had been way out of line. "Don't even joke about with that!"

"She wasn't joking; there's traces of dried saliva on the gun" Sherlock informed as he walked into the kitchen. He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. "John why don't you find a plastic bag for her arm; she's going to need a shower to get that fake blood out of her hair. The longer it sits in the hair the tougher it is to get rid of" John was frozen. "John?" Sherlock snapped his fingers at him and John came back. He found a plastic bag like they had done earlier and wrapped it around her hand and she got herself into the bathroom trying to get the sticky stuff out of her hair.

While in the shower she heard the bathroom door open.

"Sherlock?" she asked. He didn't reply. The door closed soon after. When she came out of the shower she found he had put one of her dresses and clean underwear on the floor for. She got dressed carefully and tried to ignore the stinging on the inside of her thigh.

"How deep?" Sherlock said as she stepped back into the kitchen, careful not to step in the pool of red liquid. She put on a brave face.


	31. Not That Deep

She tilted her head at him; tried to pretend she really didn't know what he meant.

"How deep?" he repeated, this time a little colder. "I can tell you've used the razor blade, show me" he sat in his chair and glared at her. She shook her head.

"They're not deep at all" her voice was low as she went for the couch; putting her bruised leg on the pillow tiredly.

"Mira I'd like a look as well" John coughed.

"No" was her short answer. "Listen I'm really sorry for that… thing… in the kitchen" she didn't know what to call what she did. Faking a suicide?

"Just never, ever do that again" John looked carefully at her. "And please let me examine the cuts, I wouldn't want them to get infected".

"I cleaned them, it's all right" she sighed. A part of her actually wanted to allow the kind doctor to help her.

"Just to be sure" John smiled softly at her. She shook her head.

"Had they been anywhere else I might have… but not this" she was picking at the lacy hem of the black dress.

"Where are they?" Doctor Watson seemed a little confused.

"John, there are two common places on the body cutters have been known to cut themselves. One is the arm; and the other?" Sherlock calmly lectured the doctor. John nodded.

"I'll be… careful" John was obviously searching for a better word. She shook her head again.

…

The door opened and she couldn't help but smile. It was a welcome way out of this uncomfortable confrontation.

Mycroft Holmes entered and Sherlock straightened his back.

"Mycroft" Sherlock greeted him coldly.

"Brother" Mycroft continued in the same tone of voice. Sherlock got on his feet and Mira sat herself up. She smiled kindly at him. "Miss Jensen" he nodded at her and she nodded back. "Watson" he greeted John.

"I hear you shot and killed one of the men we were tracking down" the elder Holmes was sizing up his younger brother

"I didn't have much choice" Sherlock informed tiredly. "Someone didn't take my warning to heart". Mira knew too well he was talking about her.

"Unwise" Mycroft said and rolled his eyes.

"He saved my life" Mira let him know.

"Miss Jensen this is a matter between me and my little brother" the look Mycroft sent her made her fall back in the couch. She nodded.

"We need her alive, remember that? He had a knife to her throat" Sherlock straightened his jacket.

"And you couldn't even keep her in the flat?" the older brother was challenging him. "I see you did try to incapacitate her" he gestured discretely towards Mira's leg that had turned a purple colour.

"What was I supposed to do, tie her to the bedpost?" Sherlock grunted.

"If that was what it took, yes!". Mycroft informed. Mira sighed. "But we've almost caught the second man" He took a deep breath and composed himself. Sherlock nodded.

"I'm sorry" Mira's voice was low as she looked at the brothers. They both nodded at her and Mycroft left.

…

The most of the day passed in silence. John reading a newspaper and Sherlock working on his experiments or answering emails from clients. Mira stayed on the couch with her phone playing a game. Making time pass the best way she knew how. Inside her head her mind was running fast though.

She was trying to make sense of what had happened the night before. The fact that people actually were out to kill her for no other reason than the fact that she was her father's illegitimate daughter. And 'they' had almost succeeded. It scared her; but what worried her most was the fact that she didn't mind. She would have allowed it to happen and not even fought against it or cried for help. It was a much easier out than blowing her own brains out.

She couldn't keep thinking terrible thoughts like that. It was devastating, crippling even. She knew it was wrong.

She knew what she had to do and she knew exactly how she had to do it. She had to be clever though. But for now she had to wait it out and try to survive in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. The very person she knew was tearing her apart, slowly slicing away at her life and sanity. For whatever reason he had.

"If I promise not to touch, may I have a look at your cuts?" John broke her train of thought. She put her phone down and looked at him.

"No one is going to look there" she stated tiredly.

"It'll be fine, Mira. Let him" Sherlock said coldly. She shook her head.

"I can take a picture, but no one is going to look or touch me!" she crossed her arms across her chest.

"Not everyone are out to molest you" the detective sighed and she cringed.

"Maybe not, I mean I hope not, but I'm not taking that chance again" she grunted as she got back on her feet and took her phone with her to the bathroom where she snapped a picture of the damage she had inflicted to herself. As she came back she handed John the phone and he looked at it.

"Clean it regularly; and if it gets infected you have to tell me!" John looked at her "Luckily they aren't that deep" he handed the phone back to her and she quickly deleted the evidence.

"I will" she promised him and found the game again. Her scores were horrible. But she couldn't think of anything but her plan.

Normally she would have been broken by Sherlock's comment about people being out to molest her, especially after the nightmare she had; but she couldn't even think about that. If her plan was to work she had to think it through thoroughly.

Later John handed her a cup of tea; again with that bitter taste and she drank it. She bid the men good night and went to the bedroom. The plan in her head had calmed her down more than any cut ever could.

She slept like a baby that night and woke with a whole new energy. In the bathroom stood a bottle of disinfectant and she figured it had been put there for her to clean her fresh cuts so she did that. She barely minded it.

She caught herself humming a sweet tune as she waltzed into the sitting room. Sherlock and John seemed baffled by her apparent happiness but she just couldn't help herself. It was even her who suggested breakfast, stating that she was quite famished.

She felt free at last.


	32. Goodbye

The days went and her bruise was slowly fading, the cuts were healing, Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the floor and every time Sherlock tried to poke her about what she was so smug about she just shrugged her shoulders.

She didn't even care about the times he tried to bring her down or test her; or whatever it was he was trying to do to her when he reminded her of her past. John would still suggest that she got help but she declined; stating that holding that gun in her mouth had reassured her it was not a route she ever wanted to take again.

One day as the three of them sat in their usual spots Sherlock's phone rang, he picked it up and a smile happened upon his full lips.

"Good, we'll proceed then!" he beamed. That was her cue. She felt her heart rate rise and it took a lot of her strength not to show it. Neither Holmes nor Watson could know what was on her mind.

"John, we've got work to do!" Sherlock was already getting his coat on and grabbed his scarf. John got on his feet, ready for action. "You stay here" he warned Mira who was resting on the couch. She nodded.

"No worries, wouldn't want a repeat performance!" she winked at him and it reassured him. And off they were.

She was alone at long last.

She jumped to her feet and grabbed her own coat and stepped into her heels. Luckily the swelling in her calf was barely present anymore and she was just sore. She had to wait a little while longer, just a few minutes more and she was circling the room much like a caged lion.

She slipped her phone in the pocket of her beloved black faux fur coat and went to find her makeup purse and it was all she took with her as she walked out of there. She felt unnerved being outside; but she figured the phone call Sherlock had received had told him the last of the hit men had been caught. Meaning she would be safe.

She hauled a cab and went back to her flat; told the cabby to wait for her while she got the cash and managed to assure him she would be back down. It was her luck that she had always had a face that people seemed to trust.

She grabbed her biggest bag and filled it with as much of her clothes she could carry; taking only those made from black fabrics. She took all of the brown envelopes as well and just before she left for the last time she left a note on her coffee table and placed her phone next to it.

"Sherlock, I have a feeling you will come here once you realize I am gone.

It has to end here. I am sorry for what I inflicted on you and John. Please don't look for me. I can't do this any longer.

Thanks for everything.

Mira Jensen"

She paid off the cabby waiting outside and she walked off to find the little hiding places she knew so well from when she first came to the city and couldn't afford her own place. This time she had to be careful though. She couldn't let anyone get close to her. And she would have to give anyone who would ask a new name. Sherlock Holmes could find anyone anywhere.

She could not go back to Baker Street. She couldn't. It was not healthy for her at all. Living in the shadows on the streets of London was no fun either; but at least this time she had money and could buy herself a meal when she felt hungry.

She could even buy the papers like she did the day she saw her own face on one of them. The headline read:

"Late head of CAM's Global News daughter found".

She couldn't recognise the picture though; it was her lying on dirty, grimy floorboards. Barely recognisable from all of the makeup but it was her. She was sure of it.

She shook her head and realized Sherlock might have taken the photo when he had her drugged for that entire week. Goodness knows what else he had done to her while she was in that state. She frowned at the thought.

Inside the paper it stated that she had been living rough while Magnussen had been living the sweet life, well informed on the state of his flesh and blood and that she had to resort to prostitution in order to survive. Famously even offering her services to Sherlock Holmes. And in the end she had overdosed on the drugs she was allegedly taking just to bear her sad and painful life. Her dead body had been found with a file full of surveillance reports over her life that clearly linked her to Charles Augustus Magnussen.

It was finally over now. She thought. There was nothing to be done.


End file.
